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Title: The Man of the Forest

Author:  Zane Grey

Release Date: February 13, 2007 [EBook #3457]
First Release Date: October, 2002  [Etext #3457]
[The actual date this file first posted = 04/27/01]
[File was first posted in etext02 as mnfor10.txt]

Edition: 11

Language: English

The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Man of the Forest, by Zane Grey
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This etext prepared by Richard Fane <rfane@earthlink.net>




THE MAN OF THE FOREST

by Zane Grey




CHAPTER I

At sunset hour the forest was still, lonely, sweet with tang
of fir and spruce, blazing in gold and red and green; and
the man who glided on under the great trees seemed to blend
with the colors and, disappearing, to have become a part of
the wild woodland.

Old Baldy, highest of the White Mountains, stood up round
and bare, rimmed bright gold in the last glow of the setting
sun.  Then, as the fire dropped behind the domed peak, a
change, a cold and darkening blight, passed down the black
spear-pointed slopes over all that mountain world.

It was a wild, richly timbered, and abundantly watered
region of dark forests and grassy parks, ten thousand feet
above sea-level, isolated on all sides by the southern
Arizona desert -- the virgin home of elk and deer, of bear
and lion, of wolf and fox, and the birthplace as well as the
hiding-place of the fierce Apache.

September in that latitude was marked by the sudden cool
night breeze following shortly after sundown.  Twilight
appeared to come on its wings, as did faint sounds, not
distinguishable before in the stillness.

Milt Dale, man of the forest, halted at the edge of a
timbered ridge, to listen and to watch.  Beneath him lay a
narrow valley, open and grassy, from which rose a faint
murmur of running water.  Its music was pierced by the wild
staccato yelp of a hunting coyote.  From overhead in the
giant fir came a twittering and rustling of grouse settling
for the night; and from across the valley drifted the last
low calls of wild turkeys going to roost.

To Dale's keen ear these sounds were all they should have
been, betokening an unchanged serenity of forestland.  He was
glad, for he had expected to hear the clipclop of white
men's horses -- which to hear up in those fastnesses was
hateful to him.  He and the Indian were friends.  That fierce
foe had no enmity toward the lone hunter.  But there hid
somewhere in the forest a gang of bad men, sheep-thieves,
whom Dale did not want to meet.

As he started out upon the slope, a sudden flaring of the
afterglow of sunset flooded down from Old Baldy, filling the
valley with lights and shadows, yellow and blue, like the
radiance of the sky.  The pools in the curves of the brook
shone darkly bright.  Dale's gaze swept up and down the
valley, and then tried to pierce the black shadows across
the brook where the wall of spruce stood up, its speared and
spiked crest against the pale clouds.  The wind began to moan
in the trees and there was a feeling of rain in the air.
Dale, striking a trail, turned his back to the fading
afterglow and strode down the valley.

With night at hand and a rain-storm brewing, he did not head
for his own camp, some miles distant, but directed his steps
toward an old log cabin.  When he reached it darkness had
almost set in.  He approached with caution.  This cabin, like
the few others scattered in the valleys, might harbor
Indians or a bear or a panther.  Nothing, however, appeared
to be there.  Then Dale studied the clouds driving across the
sky, and he felt the cool dampness of a fine, misty rain on
his face.  It would rain off and on during the night.
Whereupon he entered the cabin.

And the next moment he heard quick hoof-beats of trotting
horses.  Peering out, he saw dim, moving forms in the
darkness, quite close at hand.  They had approached against
the wind so that sound had been deadened.  Five horses with
riders, Dale made out -- saw them loom close.  Then he heard
rough voices.  Quickly he turned to feel in the dark for a
ladder he knew led to a loft; and finding it, he quickly
mounted, taking care not to make a noise with his rifle, and
lay down upon the floor of brush and poles.  Scarcely had he
done so when heavy steps, with accompaniment of clinking
spurs, passed through the door below into the cabin.

"Wal, Beasley, are you here?" queried a loud voice.

There was no reply.  The man below growled under his breath,
and again the spurs jingled.

"Fellars, Beasley ain't here yet," he called.  "Put the
hosses under the shed.  We'll wait."

"Wait, huh!" came a harsh reply.  "Mebbe all night -- an' we
got nuthin' to eat."

"Shut up, Moze.  Reckon you're no good for anythin' but
eatin'.  Put them hosses away an' some of you rustle
fire-wood in here."

Low, muttered curses, then mingled with dull thuds of hoofs
and strain of leather and heaves of tired horses.

Another shuffling, clinking footstep entered the cabin.

"Snake, it'd been sense to fetch a pack along," drawled this
newcomer.

"Reckon so, Jim.  But we didn't, an' what's the use
hollerin'?  Beasley won't keep us waitin' long."

Dale, lying still and prone, felt a slow start in all his
blood -- a thrilling wave.  That deep-voiced man below was
Snake Anson, the worst and most dangerous character of the
region; and the others, undoubtedly, composed his gang, long
notorious in that sparsely settled country.  And the Beasley
mentioned -- he was one of the two biggest ranchers and
sheep-raisers of the White Mountain ranges.  What was the
meaning of a rendezvous between Snake Anson and Beasley?
Milt Dale answered that question to Beasley's discredit; and
many strange matters pertaining to sheep and herders, always
a mystery to the little village of Pine, now became as clear
as daylight.

Other men entered the cabin.

"It ain't a-goin' to rain much," said one.  Then came a crash
of wood thrown to the ground.

"Jim, hyar's a chunk of pine log, dry as punk," said
another.

Rustlings and slow footsteps, and then heavy thuds attested
to the probability that Jim was knocking the end of a log
upon the ground to split off a corner whereby a handful of
dry splinters could be procured.

"Snake, lemme your pipe, an' I'll hev a fire in a jiffy."

"Wal, I want my terbacco an' I ain't carin' about no fire,"
replied Snake.

"Reckon you're the meanest cuss in these woods," drawled
Jim.

Sharp click of steel on flint -- many times -- and then a
sound of hard blowing and sputtering told of Jim's efforts
to start a fire.  Presently the pitchy blackness of the cabin
changed; there came a little crackling of wood and the
rustle of flame, and then a steady growing roar.

As it chanced, Dale lay face down upon the floor of the
loft, and right near his eyes there were cracks between the
boughs.  When the fire blazed up he was fairly well able to
see the men below.  The only one he had ever seen was Jim
Wilson, who had been well known at Pine before Snake Anson
had ever been heard of.  Jim was the best of a bad lot, and
he had friends among the honest people.  It was rumored that
he and Snake did not pull well together.

"Fire feels good," said the burly Moze, who appeared as
broad as he was black-visaged.  "Fall's sure a-comin'. . .
Now if only we had some grub!"

"Moze, there's a hunk of deer meat in my saddle-bag, an' if
you git it you can have half," spoke up another voice.

Moze shuffled out with alacrity.

In the firelight Snake Anson's face looked lean and
serpent-like, his eyes glittered, and his long neck and all
of his long length carried out the analogy of his name.

"Snake, what's this here deal with Beasley?" inquired Jim.

"Reckon you'll l'arn when I do," replied the leader.  He
appeared tired and thoughtful.

"Ain't we done away with enough of them poor greaser herders
-- for nothin'?" queried the youngest of the gang, a boy in
years, whose hard, bitter lips and hungry eyes somehow set
him apart from his comrades.

"You're dead right, Burt -- an' that's my stand," replied
the man who had sent Moze out.  "Snake, snow 'll be flyin'
round these woods before long," said Jim Wilson.  "Are we
goin' to winter down in the Tonto Basin or over on the
Gila?"

"Reckon we'll do some tall ridin' before we strike south,"
replied Snake, gruffly.

At the juncture Moze returned.

"Boss, I heerd a hoss comin' up the trail," he said.

Snake rose and stood at the door, listening.  Outside the
wind moaned fitfully and scattering raindrops pattered upon
the cabin.

"A-huh!" exclaimed Snake, in relief.

Silence ensued then for a moment, at the end of which
interval Dale heard a rapid clip-clop on the rocky trail
outside.  The men below shuffled uneasily, but none of them
spoke.  The fire cracked cheerily.  Snake Anson stepped back
from before the door with an action that expressed both
doubt and caution.

The trotting horse had halted out there somewhere.

"Ho there, inside!" called a voice from the darkness.

"Ho yourself!" replied Anson.

"That you, Snake?" quickly followed the query.

"Reckon so," returned Anson, showing himself.

The newcomer entered.  He was a large man, wearing a slicker
that shone wet in the firelight.  His sombrero, pulled well
down, shadowed his face, so that the upper half of his
features might as well have been masked.  He had a black,
drooping mustache, and a chin like a rock.  A potential
force, matured and powerful, seemed to be wrapped in his
movements.

"Hullo, Snake!  Hullo, Wilson!" he said.  "I've backed out on
the other deal.  Sent for you on -- on another little matter . . .
particular private."

Here he indicated with a significant gesture that Snake's
men were to leave the cabin.

"A-huh!  ejaculated Anson, dubiously.  Then he turned
abruptly.  Moze, you an' Shady an' Burt go wait outside.
Reckon this ain't the deal I expected....  An' you can saddle
the hosses."

The three members of the gang filed out, all glancing keenly
at the stranger, who had moved back into the shadow.

"All right now, Beasley," said Anson, low-voiced.  "What's
your game?  Jim, here, is in on my deals."

Then Beasley came forward to the fire, stretching his hands
to the blaze.

"Nothin' to do with sheep," replied he.

"Wal, I reckoned not," assented the other.  "An' say --
whatever your game is, I ain't likin' the way you kept me
waitin' an' ridin' around.  We waited near all day at Big
Spring.  Then thet greaser rode up an' sent us here.  We're a
long way from camp with no grub an' no blankets."

"I won't keep you long," said Beasley.  "But even if I did
you'd not mind -- when I tell you this deal concerns Al
Auchincloss -- the man who made an outlaw of you!"

Anson's sudden action then seemed a leap of his whole frame.
Wilson, likewise, bent forward eagerly.  Beasley glanced at
the door -- then began to whisper.

"Old Auchincloss is on his last legs.  He's goin' to croak.
He's sent back to Missouri for a niece -- a young girl --
an' he means to leave his ranches an' sheep -- all his stock
to her.  Seems he has no one else. . . .  Them ranches -- an'
all them sheep an' hosses!  You know me an' Al were pardners
in sheep-raisin' for years.  He swore I cheated him an' he
threw me out.  An' all these years I've been swearin' he did
me dirt -- owed me sheep an' money.  I've got as many friends
in Pine -- an' all the way down the trail -- as Auchincloss
has. . . .  An' Snake, see here --"

He paused to draw a deep breath and his big hands trembled
over the blaze.  Anson leaned forward, like a serpent ready
to strike, and Jim Wilson was as tense with his divination
of the plot at hand.

"See here," panted Beasley.  "The girl's due to arrive at
Magdalena on the sixteenth.  That's a week from to-morrow.
She'll take the stage to Snowdrop, where some of
Auchincloss's men will meet her with a team."

"A-huh!" grunted Anson as Beasley halted again.  "An' what of
all thet?"

"She mustn't never get as far as Snowdrop!"

"You want me to hold up the stage -- an' get the girl?"

"Exactly."

"Wal -- an' what then?"

"Make off with her. . . .  She disappears.  That's your affair.
. . .  I'll press my claims on Auchincloss -- hound him --
an' be ready when he croaks to take over his property.  Then
the girl can come back, for all I care. . . .  You an' Wilson
fix up the deal between you.  If you have to let the gang in
on it don't give them any hunch as to who an' what.  This 'll
make you a rich stake.  An' providin', when it's paid, you
strike for new territory."

"Thet might be wise," muttered Snake Anson.  "Beasley, the
weak point in your game is the uncertainty of life.  Old Al
is tough.  He may fool you."

"Auchincloss is a dyin' man," declared Beasley, with such
positiveness that it could not be doubted.

"Wal, he sure wasn't plumb hearty when I last seen him. . . .
Beasley, in case I play your game -- how'm I to know that
girl?"

"Her name's Helen Rayner," replied Beasley, eagerly.  "She's
twenty years old.  All of them Auchinclosses was handsome an'
they say she's the handsomest."

"A-huh!  . . .  Beasley, this 's sure a bigger deal -- an' one
I ain't fancyin'. . . .  But I never doubted your word. . . .
Come on -- an' talk out.  What's in it for me?"

"Don't let any one in on this.  You two can hold up the
stage.  Why, it was never held up. . . .  But you want to
mask. . . .  How about ten thousand sheep -- or what they
bring at Phenix in gold?"

Jim Wilson whistled low.

"An' leave for new territory?" repeated Snake Anson, under
his breath.

"You've said it."

"Wal, I ain't fancyin' the girl end of this deal, but you
can count on me. . . .  September sixteenth at Magdalena --
an' her name's Helen -- an' she's handsome?"

"Yes.  My herders will begin drivin' south in about two
weeks.  Later, if the weather holds good, send me word by one
of them an' I'll meet you."

Beasley spread his hands once more over the blaze, pulled on
his gloves and pulled down his sombrero, and with an abrupt
word of parting strode out into the night.

"Jim, what do you make of him?" queried Snake Anson.

"Pard, he's got us beat two ways for Sunday," replied
Wilson.

"A-huh!  . . .  Wal, let's get back to camp." And he led the
way out.

Low voices drifted into the cabin, then came snorts of
horses and striking hoofs, and after that a steady trot,
gradually ceasing.  Once more the moan of wind and soft
patter of rain filled the forest stillness.



CHAPTER II

Milt Dale quietly sat up to gaze, with thoughtful eyes, into
the gloom.

He was thirty years old.  As a boy of fourteen he had run off
from his school and home in Iowa and, joining a wagon-train
of pioneers, he was one of the first to see log cabins built
on the slopes of the White Mountains.  But he had not taken
kindly to farming or sheep-raising or monotonous home toil,
and for twelve years he had lived in the forest, with only
infrequent visits to Pine and Show Down and Snowdrop.  This
wandering forest life of his did not indicate that he did
not care for the villagers, for he did care, and he was
welcome everywhere, but that he loved wild life and solitude
and beauty with the primitive instinctive force of a savage.

And on this night he had stumbled upon a dark plot against
the only one of all the honest white people in that region
whom he could not call a friend.

"That man Beasley!" he soliloquized.  "Beasley -- in cahoots
with Snake Anson!  . . .  Well, he was right.  Al Auchincloss
is on his last legs.  Poor old man!  When I tell him he'll
never believe ME, that's sure!"

Discovery of the plot meant to Dale that he must hurry down
to Pine.

"A girl -- Helen Rayner -- twenty years old," he mused.
"Beasley wants her made off with. . . .  That means -- worse
than killed!"

Dale accepted facts of life with that equanimity and
fatality acquired by one long versed in the cruel annals of
forest lore.  Bad men worked their evil just as savage wolves
relayed a deer.  He had shot wolves for that trick.  With men,
good or bad, he had not clashed.  Old women and children
appealed to him, but he had never had any interest in girls.
The image, then, of this Helen Rayner came strangely to
Dale; and he suddenly realized that he had meant somehow to
circumvent Beasley, not to befriend old Al Auchincloss, but
for the sake of the girl.  Probably she was already on her
way West, alone, eager, hopeful of a future home.  How little
people guessed what awaited them at a journey's end!  Many
trails ended abruptly in the forest -- and only trained
woodsmen could read the tragedy.

"Strange how I cut across country to-day from Spruce Swamp,"
reflected Dale.  Circumstances, movements, usually were not
strange to him.  His methods and habits were seldom changed
by chance.  The matter, then, of his turning off a course out
of his way for no apparent reason, and of his having
overheard a plot singularly involving a young girl, was
indeed an adventure to provoke thought.  It provoked more,
for Dale grew conscious of an unfamiliar smoldering heat
along his veins.  He who had little to do with the strife of
men, and nothing to do with anger, felt his blood grow hot
at the cowardly trap laid for an innocent girl.

"Old Al won't listen to me," pondered Dale.  "An' even if he
did, he wouldn't believe me.  Maybe nobody will. . . .  All
the same, Snake Anson won't get that girl."

With these last words Dale satisfied himself of his own
position, and his pondering ceased.  Taking his rifle, he
descended from the loft and peered out of the door.  The
night had grown darker, windier, cooler; broken clouds were
scudding across the sky; only a few stars showed; fine rain
was blowing from the northwest; and the forest seemed full
of a low, dull roar.

"Reckon I'd better hang up here," he said, and turned to the
fire.  The coals were red now.  From the depths of his
hunting-coat he procured a little bag of salt and some
strips of dried meat.  These strips he laid for a moment on
the hot embers, until they began to sizzle and curl; then
with a sharpened stick he removed them and ate like a hungry
hunter grateful for little.

He sat on a block of wood with his palms spread to the dying
warmth of the fire and his eyes fixed upon the changing,
glowing, golden embers.  Outside, the wind continued to rise
and the moan of the forest increased to a roar.  Dale felt
the comfortable warmth stealing over him, drowsily lulling;
and he heard the storm-wind in the trees, now like a
waterfall, and anon like a retreating army, and again low
and sad; and he saw pictures in the glowing embers, strange
as dreams.

Presently he rose and, climbing to the loft, he stretched
himself out, and soon fell asleep.


When the gray dawn broke he was on his way, 'cross-country,
to the village of Pine.

During the night the wind had shifted and the rain had
ceased.  A suspicion of frost shone on the grass in open
places.  All was gray -- the parks, the glades -- and deeper,
darker gray marked the aisles of the forest.  Shadows lurked
under the trees and the silence seemed consistent with
spectral forms.  Then the east kindled, the gray lightened,
the dreaming woodland awoke to the far-reaching rays of a
bursting red sun.

This was always the happiest moment of Dale's lonely days,
as sunset was his saddest.  He responded, and there was
something in his blood that answered the whistle of a stag
from a near-by ridge.  His strides were long, noiseless, and
they left dark trace where his feet brushed the dew-laden
grass.

Dale pursued a zigzag course over the ridges to escape the
hardest climbing, but the "senacas" -- those parklike
meadows so named by Mexican sheep-herders -- were as round
and level as if they had been made by man in beautiful
contrast to the dark-green, rough, and rugged ridges.  Both
open senaca and dense wooded ridge showed to his quick eye
an abundance of game.  The cracking of twigs and disappearing
flash of gray among the spruces, a round black lumbering
object, a twittering in the brush, and stealthy steps, were
all easy signs for Dale to read.  Once, as he noiselessly
emerged into a little glade, he espied a red fox stalking
some quarry, which, as he advanced, proved to be a flock of
partridges.  They whirred up, brushing the branches, and the
fox trotted away.  In every senaca Dale encountered wild
turkeys feeding on the seeds of the high grass.

It had always been his custom, on his visits to Pine, to
kill and pack fresh meat down to several old friends, who
were glad to give him lodging.  And, hurried though he was
now, he did not intend to make an exception of this trip.

At length he got down into the pine belt, where the great,
gnarled, yellow trees soared aloft, stately, and aloof from
one another, and the ground was a brown, odorous, springy
mat of pine-needles, level as a floor.  Squirrels watched him
from all around, scurrying away at his near approach --
tiny, brown, light-striped squirrels, and larger ones,
russet-colored, and the splendid dark-grays with their white
bushy tails and plumed ears.

This belt of pine ended abruptly upon wide, gray, rolling,
open land, almost like a prairie, with foot-hills lifting
near and far, and the red-gold blaze of aspen thickets
catching the morning sun.  Here Dale flushed a flock of wild
turkeys, upward of forty in number, and their subdued color
of gray flecked with white, and graceful, sleek build,
showed them to be hens.  There was not a gobbler in the
flock.  They began to run pell-mell out into the grass, until
only their heads appeared bobbing along, and finally
disappeared.  Dale caught a glimpse of skulking coyotes that
evidently had been stalking the turkeys, and as they saw him
and darted into the timber he took a quick shot at the
hindmost.  His bullet struck low, as he had meant it to, but
too low, and the coyote got only a dusting of earth and
pine-needles thrown up into his face.  This frightened him so
that he leaped aside blindly to butt into a tree, rolled
over, gained his feet, and then the cover of the forest.
Dale was amused at this.  His hand was against all the
predatory beasts of the forest, though he had learned that
lion and bear and wolf and fox were all as necessary to the
great scheme of nature as were the gentle, beautiful wild
creatures upon which they preyed.  But some he loved better
than others, and so he deplored the inexplicable cruelty.

He crossed the wide, grassy plain and struck another gradual
descent where aspens and pines crowded a shallow ravine and
warm, sun-lighted glades bordered along a sparkling brook.
Here he heard a turkey gobble, and that was a signal for him
to change his course and make a crouching, silent detour
around a clump of aspens.  In a sunny patch of grass a dozen
or more big gobblers stood, all suspiciously facing in his
direction, heads erect, with that wild aspect peculiar to
their species.  Old wild turkey gobblers were the most
difficult game to stalk.  Dale shot two of them.  The others
began to run like ostriches, thudding over the ground,
spreading their wings, and with that running start launched
their heavy bodies into whirring flight.  They flew low, at
about the height of a man from the grass, and vanished in
the woods.

Dale threw the two turkeys over his shoulder and went on his
way.  Soon he came to a break in the forest level, from which
he gazed down a league-long slope of pine and cedar, out
upon the bare, glistening desert, stretching away, endlessly
rolling out to the dim, dark horizon line.

The little hamlet of Pine lay on the last level of sparsely
timbered forest.  A road, running parallel with a
dark-watered, swift-flowing stream, divided the cluster of
log cabins from which columns of blue smoke drifted lazily
aloft.  Fields of corn and fields of oats, yellow in the
sunlight, surrounded the village; and green pastures, dotted
with horses and cattle, reached away to the denser woodland.
This site appeared to be a natural clearing, for there was
no evidence of cut timber.  The scene was rather too wild to
be pastoral, but it was serene, tranquil, giving the
impression of a remote community, prosperous and happy,
drifting along the peaceful tenor of sequestered lives.

Dale halted before a neat little log cabin and a little
patch of garden bordered with sunflowers.  His call was
answered by an old woman, gray and bent, but remarkably
spry, who appeared at the door.

"Why, land's sakes, if it ain't Milt Dale!" she exclaimed,
in welcome.

"Reckon it's me, Mrs.  Cass," he replied.  "An' I've brought
you a turkey."

"Milt, you're that good boy who never forgits old Widow
Cass. . . .  What a gobbler!  First one I've seen this fall.
My man Tom used to fetch home gobblers like that. . . .  An'
mebbe he'll come home again sometime."

Her husband, Tom Cass, had gone into the forest years before
and had never returned.  But the old woman always looked for
him and never gave up hope.

"Men have been lost in the forest an' yet come back,"
replied Dale, as he had said to her many a time.

"Come right in.  You air hungry, I know.  Now, son, when last
did you eat a fresh egg or a flapjack?"

"You should remember," he answered, laughing, as he followed
her into a small, clean kitchen.

"Laws-a'-me!  An' thet's months ago," she replied, shaking
her gray head.  "Milt, you should give up that wild life --
an' marry -- an' have a home."

"You always tell me that."

"Yes, an' I'll see you do it yet. . . .  Now you set there,
an' pretty soon I'll give you thet to eat which 'll make
your mouth water."

"What's the news, Auntie?" he asked.

"Nary news in this dead place.  Why, nobody's been to
Snowdrop in two weeks!  . . .  Sary Jones died, poor old soul
-- she's better off -- an' one of my cows run away.  Milt,
she's wild when she gits loose in the woods.  An' you'll have
to track her, 'cause nobody else can.  An' John Dakker's
heifer was killed by a lion, an' Lem Harden's fast hoss --
you know his favorite -- was stole by hoss-thieves.  Lem is
jest crazy.  An' that reminds me, Milt, where's your big
ranger, thet you'd never sell or lend?"

"My horses are up in the woods, Auntie; safe, I reckon, from
horse-thieves."

"Well, that's a blessin'.  We've had some stock stole this
summer, Milt, an' no mistake."

Thus, while preparing a meal for Dale, the old woman went on
recounting all that had happened in the little village since
his last visit.  Dale enjoyed her gossip and quaint
philosophy, and it was exceedingly good to sit at her table.
In his opinion, nowhere else could there have been such
butter and cream, such ham and eggs.  Besides, she always had
apple pie, it seemed, at any time he happened in; and apple
pie was one of Dale's few regrets while up in the lonely
forest.

"How's old Al Auchincloss?" presently inquired Dale.

"Poorly -- poorly," sighed Mrs.  Cass.  "But he tramps an'
rides around same as ever.  Al's not long for this world. . . .
An', Milt, that reminds me -- there's the biggest news you
ever heard."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dale, to encourage the excited
old woman.

"Al has sent back to Saint Joe for his niece, Helen Rayner.
She's to inherit all his property.  We've heard much of her
-- a purty lass, they say. . . .  Now, Milt Dale, here's your
chance.  Stay out of the woods an' go to work. . . .  You can
marry that girl!"

"No chance for me, Auntie," replied Dale, smiling.

The old woman snorted.  "Much you know!  Any girl would have
you, Milt Dale, if you'd only throw a kerchief."

"Me!  . . .  An' why, Auntie?" he queried, half amused, half
thoughtful.  When he got back to civilization he always had
to adjust his thoughts to the ideas of people.

"Why?  I declare, Milt, you live so in the woods you're like
a boy of ten -- an' then sometimes as old as the hills. . . .
There's no young man to compare with you, hereabouts.  An'
this girl -- she'll have all the spunk of the
Auchinclosses."

"Then maybe she'd not be such a catch, after all," replied
Dale.

"Wal, you've no cause to love them, that's sure.  But, Milt,
the Auchincloss women are always good wives."

"Dear Auntie, you're dreamin'," said Dale, soberly.  "I want
no wife.  I'm happy in the woods."

"Air you goin' to live like an Injun all your days, Milt
Dale?" she queried, sharply.

"I hope so."

"You ought to be ashamed.  But some lass will change you,
boy, an' mebbe it'll be this Helen Rayner.  I hope an' pray
so to thet."

"Auntie, supposin' she did change me.  She'd never change old
Al.  He hates me, you know."

"Wal, I ain't so sure, Milt.  I met Al the other day.  He
inquired for you, an' said you was wild, but he reckoned men
like you was good for pioneer settlements.  Lord knows the
good turns you've done this village!  Milt, old Al doesn't
approve of your wild life, but he never had no hard feelin's
till thet tame lion of yours killed so many of his sheep."

"Auntie, I don't believe Tom ever killed Al's sheep,"
declared Dale, positively.

"Wal, Al thinks so, an' many other people," replied Mrs.
Cass, shaking her gray head doubtfully.  "You never swore he
didn't.  An' there was them two sheep-herders who did swear
they seen him."

"They only saw a cougar.  An' they were so scared they ran."

"Who wouldn't?  Thet big beast is enough to scare any one.
For land's sakes, don't ever fetch him down here again!  I'll
never forgit the time you did.  All the folks an' children
an' hosses in Pine broke an' run thet day."

"Yes; but Tom wasn't to blame.  Auntie, he's the tamest of my
pets.  Didn't he try to put his head on your lap an' lick
your hand?"

"Wal, Milt, I ain't gainsayin' your cougar pet didn't act
better 'n a lot of people I know.  Fer he did.  But the looks
of him an' what's been said was enough for me."

"An' what's all that, Auntie?"

"They say he's wild when out of your sight.  An' thet he'd
trail an' kill anythin' you put him after."

"I trained him to be just that way."

"Wal, leave Tom to home up in the woods--when you visit us."

Dale finished his hearty meal, and listened awhile longer to
the old woman's talk; then, taking his rifle and the other
turkey, he bade her good-by.  She followed him out.

"Now, Milt, you'll come soon again, won't you -- jest to see
Al's niece -- who'll be here in a week?"

"I reckon I'll drop in some day. . . .  Auntie, have you seen
my friends, the Mormon boys?"

"No, I 'ain't seen them an' don't want to," she retorted.
"Milt Dale, if any one ever corrals you it'll be Mormons."

"Don't worry, Auntie.  I like those boys.  They often see me
up in the woods an' ask me to help them track a hoss or help
kill some fresh meat."

"They're workin' for Beasley now."

"Is that so?" rejoined Dale, with a sudden start.  "An' what
doin'?"

"Beasley is gettin' so rich he's buildin' a fence, an'
didn't have enough help, so I hear."

"Beasley gettin' rich!" repeated Dale, thoughtfully.  "More
sheep an' horses an' cattle than ever, I reckon?"

"Laws-a'-me!  Why, Milt, Beasley 'ain't any idea what he
owns.  Yes, he's the biggest man in these parts, since poor
old Al's took to failin'.  I reckon Al's health ain't none
improved by Beasley's success.  They've bad some bitter
quarrels lately -- so I hear.  Al ain't what he was."

Dale bade good-by again to his old friend and strode away,
thoughtful and serious.  Beasley would not only be difficult
to circumvent, but he would be dangerous to oppose.  There
did not appear much doubt of his driving his way rough-shod
to the dominance of affairs there in Pine.  Dale, passing
down the road, began to meet acquaintances who had hearty
welcome for his presence and interest in his doings, so that
his pondering was interrupted for the time being.  He carried
the turkey to another old friend, and when he left her house
he went on to the village store.  This was a large log cabin,
roughly covered with clapboards, with a wide plank platform
in front and a hitching-rail in the road.  Several horses
were standing there, and a group of lazy, shirt-sleeved
loungers.

"I'll be doggoned if it ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed one.

"Howdy, Milt, old buckskin!  Right down glad to see you,"
greeted another.

"Hello, Dale!  You air shore good for sore eyes," drawled
still another.

After a long period of absence Dale always experienced a
singular warmth of feeling when he met these acquaintances.
It faded quickly when he got back to the intimacy of his
woodland, and that was because the people of Pine, with few
exceptions -- though they liked him and greatly admired his
outdoor wisdom -- regarded him as a sort of nonentity.
Because he loved the wild and preferred it to village and
range life, they had classed him as not one of them.  Some
believed him lazy; others believed him shiftless; others
thought him an Indian in mind and habits; and there were
many who called him slow-witted.  Then there was another side
to their regard for him, which always afforded him
good-natured amusement.  Two of this group asked him to bring
in some turkey or venison; another wanted to hunt with him.
Lem Harden came out of the store and appealed to Dale to
recover his stolen horse.  Lem's brother wanted a
wild-running mare tracked and brought home.  Jesse Lyons
wanted a colt broken, and broken with patience, not
violence, as was the method of the hard-riding boys at Pine.
So one and all they besieged Dale with their selfish needs,
all unconscious of the flattering nature of these overtures.
And on the moment there happened by two women whose remarks,
as they entered the store, bore strong testimony to Dale's
personality.

"If there ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed the older of the two.
"How lucky!  My cow's sick, an' the men are no good
doctorin'.  I'll jest ask Milt over."

"No one like Milt!" responded the other woman, heartily.

"Good day there -- you Milt Dale!" called the first speaker.
"When you git away from these lazy men come over."

Dale never refused a service, and that was why his
infrequent visits to Pine were wont to be prolonged beyond
his own pleasure.

Presently Beasley strode down the street, and when about to
enter the store he espied Dale.

"Hullo there, Milt!" he called, cordially, as he came
forward with extended hand.  His greeting was sincere, but
the lightning glance he shot over Dale was not born of his
pleasure.  Seen in daylight, Beasley was a big, bold, bluff
man, with strong, dark features.  His aggressive presence
suggested that he was a good friend and a bad enemy.

Dale shook hands with him.

"How are you, Beasley?"

"Ain't complainin', Milt, though I got more work than I can
rustle.  Reckon you wouldn't take a job bossin' my
sheep-herders?"

"Reckon I wouldn't," replied Dale.  "Thanks all the same."

"What's goin' on up in the woods?"

"Plenty of turkey an' deer.  Lots of bear, too.  The Indians
have worked back on the south side early this fall.  But I
reckon winter will come late an' be mild."

"Good!  An' where 're you headin' from?"

"'Cross-country from my camp," replied Dale, rather
evasively.

"Your camp!  Nobody ever found that yet," declared Beasley,
gruffly.

"It's up there," said Dale.

"Reckon you've got that cougar chained in your cabin door?"
queried Beasley, and there was a barely distinguishable
shudder of his muscular frame.  Also the pupils dilated in
his hard brown eyes.

"Tom ain't chained.  An' I haven't no cabin, Beasley."

"You mean to tell me that big brute stays in your camp
without bein' hog-tied or corralled!" demanded Beasley.

"Sure he does."

"Beats me!  But, then, I'm queer on cougars.  Have had many a
cougar trail me at night.  Ain't sayin' I was scared.  But I
don't care for that brand of varmint. . . .  Milt, you goin'
to stay down awhile?"

"Yes, I'll hang around some."

"Come over to the ranch.  Glad to see you any time.  Some old
huntin' pards of yours are workin' for me."

"Thanks, Beasley.  I reckon I'll come over."

Beasley turned away and took a step, and then, as if with an
after-thought, he wheeled again.

"Suppose you've heard about old Al Auchincloss bein' near
petered out?" queried Beasley.  A strong, ponderous cast of
thought seemed to emanate from his features.  Dale divined
that Beasley's next step would be to further his advancement
by some word or hint.

"Widow Cass was tellin' me all the news.  Too bad about old
Al," replied Dale.

"Sure is.  He's done for.  An' I'm sorry -- though Al's never
been square --"

"Beasley," interrupted Dale, quickly, "you can't say that to
me.  Al Auchincloss always was the whitest an' squarest man
in this sheep country."

Beasley gave Dale a fleeting, dark glance.

"Dale, what you think ain't goin' to influence feelin' on
this range," returned Beasley, deliberately.  "You live in
the woods an' --"

"Reckon livin' in the woods I might think -- an' know a
whole lot," interposed Dale, just as deliberately.  The group
of men exchanged surprised glances.  This was Milt Dale in
different aspect.  And Beasley did not conceal a puzzled
surprise.

"About what -- now?" he asked, bluntly.

"Why, about what's goin' on in Pine," replied Dale.

Some of the men laughed.

"Shore lots goin' on -- an' no mistake," put in Lem Harden.

Probably the keen Beasley had never before considered Milt
Dale as a responsible person; certainly never one in any way
to cross his trail.  But on the instant, perhaps, some
instinct was born, or he divined an antagonism in Dale that
was both surprising and perplexing.

"Dale, I've differences with Al Auchincloss -- have had them
for years," said Beasley.  "Much of what he owns is mine.  An'
it's goin' to come to me.  Now I reckon people will be takin'
sides -- some for me an' some for Al.  Most are for me. . . .
Where do you stand?  Al Auchincloss never had no use for you,
an' besides he's a dyin' man.  Are you goin' on his side?"

"Yes, I reckon I am."

"Wal, I'm glad you've declared yourself," rejoined Beasley,
shortly, and he strode away with the ponderous gait of a man
who would brush any obstacle from his path.

"Milt, thet's bad -- makin' Beasley sore at you," said Lem
Harden.  "He's on the way to boss this outfit."

"He's sure goin' to step into Al's boots," said another.

"Thet was white of Milt to stick up fer poor old Al,"
declared Lem's brother.

Dale broke away from them and wended a thoughtful way down
the road.  The burden of what he knew about Beasley weighed
less heavily upon him, and the close-lipped course he had
decided upon appeared wisest.  He needed to think before
undertaking to call upon old Al Auchincloss; and to that end
he sought an hour's seclusion under the pines.



CHAPTER III

In the afternoon, Dale, having accomplished some tasks
imposed upon him by his old friends at Pine, directed slow
steps toward the Auchincloss ranch.

The flat, square stone and log cabin of unusually large size
stood upon a little hill half a mile out of the village.  A
home as well as a fort, it had been the first structure
erected in that region, and the process of building had more
than once been interrupted by Indian attacks.  The Apaches
had for some time, however, confined their fierce raids to
points south of the White Mountain range.  Auchincloss's
house looked down upon barns and sheds and corrals of all
sizes and shapes, and hundreds of acres of well-cultivated
soil.  Fields of oats waved gray and yellow in the afternoon
sun; an immense green pasture was divided by a
willow-bordered brook, and here were droves of horses, and
out on the rolling bare flats were straggling herds of
cattle.

The whole ranch showed many years of toil and the
perseverance of man.  The brook irrigated the verdant valley
between the ranch and the village.  Water for the house,
however, came down from the high, wooded slope of the
mountain, and had been brought there by a simple expedient.
Pine logs of uniform size had been laid end to end, with a
deep trough cut in them, and they made a shining line down
the slope, across the valley, and up the little hill to the
Auchincloss home.  Near the house the hollowed halves of logs
had been bound together, making a crude pipe.  Water ran
uphill in this case, one of the facts that made the ranch
famous, as it had always been a wonder and delight to the
small boys of Pine.  The two good women who managed
Auchincloss's large household were often shocked by the
strange things that floated into their kitchen with the
ever-flowing stream of clear, cold mountain water.

As it happened this day Dale encountered Al Auchincloss
sitting in the shade of a porch, talking to some of his
sheep-herders and stockmen.  Auchincloss was a short man of
extremely powerful build and great width of shoulder.  He had
no gray hairs, and he did not look old, yet there was in his
face a certain weariness, something that resembled sloping
lines of distress, dim and pale, that told of age and the
ebb-tide of vitality.  His features, cast in large mold, were
clean-cut and comely, and he had frank blue eyes, somewhat
sad, yet still full of spirit.

Dale had no idea how his visit would be taken, and he
certainly would not have been surprised to be ordered off
the place.  He had not set foot there for years.  Therefore it
was with surprise that he saw Auchincloss wave away the
herders and take his entrance without any particular
expression.

"Howdy, Al!  How are you?" greeted Dale, easily, as he leaned
his rifle against the log wall.

Auchincloss did not rise, but he offered his hand.

"Wal, Milt Dale, I reckon this is the first time I ever seen
you that I couldn't lay you flat on your back," replied the
rancher.  His tone was both testy and full of pathos.

"I take it you mean you ain't very well," replied Dale.  "I'm
sorry, Al."

"No, it ain't thet.  Never was sick in my life.  I'm just
played out, like a hoss thet had been strong an' willin',
an' did too much. . . .  Wal, you don't look a day older,
Milt.  Livin' in the woods rolls over a man's head."

"Yes, I'm feelin' fine, an' time never bothers me."

"Wal, mebbe you ain't such a fool, after all.  I've wondered
lately -- since I had time to think. . . .  But, Milt, you
don't git no richer."

"Al, I have all I want an' need."

"Wal, then, you don't support anybody; you don't do any good
in the world."

"We don't agree, Al," replied Dale, with his slow smile.

"Reckon we never did. . . .  An' you jest come over to pay
your respects to me, eh?"

"Not altogether," answered Dale, ponderingly.  "First off,
I'd like to say I'll pay back them sheep you always claimed
my tame cougar killed."

"You will!  An' how'd you go about that?"

"Wasn't very many sheep, was there?

"A matter of fifty head."

"So many!  Al, do you still think old Tom killed them sheep?"

"Humph!  Milt, I know damn well he did."

"Al, now how could you know somethin' I don't?  Be
reasonable, now.  Let's don't fall out about this again.  I'll
pay back the sheep.  Work it out --"

"Milt Dale, you'll come down here an' work out that fifty
head of sheep!" ejaculated the old rancher, incredulously.

"Sure."

"Wal, I'll be damned!" He sat back and gazed with shrewd
eyes at Dale.  "What's got into you, Milt?  Hev you heard
about my niece thet's comin', an' think you'll shine up to
her?"

"Yes, Al, her comin' has a good deal to do with my deal,"
replied Dale, soberly.  "But I never thought to shine up to
her, as you hint."

"Haw!  Haw!  You're just like all the other colts hereabouts.
Reckon it's a good sign, too.  It'll take a woman to fetch
you out of the woods.  But, boy, this niece of mine, Helen
Rayner, will stand you on your head.  I never seen her.  They
say she's jest like her mother.  An' Nell Auchincloss -- what
a girl she was!"

Dale felt his face grow red.  Indeed, this was strange
conversation for him.

"Honest, Al --" he began.

"Son, don't lie to an old man."

"Lie!  I wouldn't lie to any one.  Al, it's only men who live
in towns an' are always makin' deals.  I live in the forest,
where there's nothin' to make me lie."

"Wal, no offense meant, I'm sure," responded Auchincloss.
"An' mebbe there's somethin' in what you say . . .  We was
talkin' about them sheep your big cat killed.  Wal, Milt, I
can't prove it, that's sure.  An' mebbe you'll think me
doddery when I tell you my reason.  It wasn't what them
greaser herders said about seein' a cougar in the herd."

"What was it, then?" queried Dale, much interested.

"Wal, thet day a year ago I seen your pet.  He was lyin' in
front of the store an' you was inside tradin', fer supplies,
I reckon.  It was like meetin' an enemy face to face.
Because, damn me if I didn't know that cougar was guilty
when he looked in my eyes!  There!"

The old rancher expected to be laughed at.  But Dale was
grave.

"Al, I know how you felt," he replied, as if they were
discussing an action of a human being.  "Sure I'd hate to
doubt old Tom.  But he's a cougar.  An' the ways of animals
are strange . . .  Anyway, Al, I'll make good the loss of
your sheep."

"No, you won't," rejoined Auchincloss, quickly.  "We'll call
it off.  I'm takin' it square of you to make the offer.
Thet's enough.  So forget your worry about work, if you had
any."

"There's somethin' else, Al, I wanted to say," began Dale,
with hesitation.  "An' it's about Beasley."

Auchincloss started violently, and a flame of red shot into
his face.  Then he raised a big hand that shook.  Dale saw in
a flash how the old man's nerves had gone.

"Don't mention -- thet -- thet greaser -- to me!" burst out
the rancher.  "It makes me see -- red. . . .  Dale, I ain't
overlookin' that you spoke up fer me to-day -- stood fer my
side.  Lem Harden told me.  I was glad.  An' thet's why --
to-day -- I forgot our old quarrel. . . .  But not a word
about thet sheep-thief -- or I'll drive you off the place!"

"But, Al -- be reasonable," remonstrated Dale.  "It's
necessary thet I speak of -- of Beasley."

"It ain't.  Not to me.  I won't listen."

"Reckon you'll have to, Al," returned Dale.  "Beasley's after
your property.  He's made a deal --"

"By Heaven!  I know that!" shouted Auchincloss, tottering up,
with his face now black-red.  "Do you think thet's new to me?
Shut up, Dale!  I can't stand it."

"But Al -- there's worse," went on Dale, hurriedly.  "Worse!
Your life's threatened -- an' your niece, Helen -- she's to
be --"

"Shut up -- an' clear out!" roared Auchincloss, waving his
huge fists.

He seemed on the verge of a collapse as, shaking all over,
he backed into the door.  A few seconds of rage had
transformed him into a pitiful old man.

"But, Al -- I'm your friend --" began Dale, appealingly.

"Friend, hey?" returned the rancher, with grim, bitter
passion.  "Then you're the only one. . . .  Milt Dale, I'm
rich an' I'm a dyin' man.  I trust nobody . . .  But, you wild
hunter -- if you're my friend -- prove it!  . . .  Go kill
thet greaser sheep-thief!  DO somethin' -- an' then come talk
to me!"

With that he lurched, half falling, into the house, and
slammed the door.

Dale stood there for a blank moment, and then, taking up his
rifle, he strode away.

Toward sunset Dale located the camp of his four Mormon
friends, and reached it in time for supper.

John, Roy, Joe, and Hal Beeman were sons of a pioneer Mormon
who had settled the little community of Snowdrop.  They were
young men in years, but hard labor and hard life in the open
had made them look matured.  Only a year's difference in age
stood between John and Roy, and between Roy and Joe, and
likewise Joe and Hal.  When it came to appearance they were
difficult to distinguish from one another.  Horsemen,
sheep-herders, cattle-raisers, hunters -- they all possessed
long, wiry, powerful frames, lean, bronzed, still faces, and
the quiet, keen eyes of men used to the open.

Their camp was situated beside a spring in a cove surrounded
by aspens, some three miles from Pine; and, though working
for Beasley, near the village, they had ridden to and fro
from camp, after the habit of seclusion peculiar to their
kind.

Dale and the brothers had much in common, and a warm regard
had sprang up.  But their exchange of confidences had wholly
concerned things pertaining to the forest.  Dale ate supper
with them, and talked as usual when he met them, without
giving any hint of the purpose forming in his mind.  After
the meal he helped Joe round up the horses, hobble them for
the night, and drive them into a grassy glade among the
pines.  Later, when the shadows stole through the forest on
the cool wind, and the camp-fire glowed comfortably, Dale
broached the subject that possessed him.

"An' so you're working for Beasley?" he queried, by way of
starting conversation.

"We was," drawled John.  "But to-day, bein' the end of our
month, we got our pay an' quit.  Beasley sure was sore."

"Why'd you knock off?"

John essayed no reply, and his brothers all had that quiet,
suppressed look of knowledge under restraint.

"Listen to what I come to tell you, then you'll talk," went
on Dale.  And hurriedly he told of Beasley's plot to abduct
Al Auchincloss's niece and claim the dying man's property.

When Dale ended, rather breathlessly, the Mormon boys sat
without any show of surprise or feeling.  John, the eldest,
took up a stick and slowly poked the red embers of the fire,
making the white sparks fly.

"Now, Milt, why'd you tell us thet?" he asked, guardedly.

"You're the only friends I've got," replied Dale.  "It didn't
seem safe for me to talk down in the village.  I thought of
you boys right off.  I ain't goin' to let Snake Anson get
that girl.  An' I need help, so I come to you."

"Beasley's strong around Pine, an' old Al's weakenin'.
Beasley will git the property, girl or no girl," said John.

"Things don't always turn out as they look.  But no matter
about that.  The girl deal is what riled me. . . .  She's to
arrive at Magdalena on the sixteenth, an' take stage for
Snowdrop. . . .  Now what to do?  If she travels on that stage
I'll be on it, you bet.  But she oughtn't to be in it at all.
. . .  Boys, somehow I'm goin' to save her.  Will you help me?
I reckon I've been in some tight corners for you.  Sure, this
's different.  But are you my friends?  You know now what
Beasley is.  An' you're all lost at the hands of Snake
Anson's gang.  You've got fast hosses, eyes for trackin', an'
you can handle a rifle.  You're the kind of fellows I'd want
in a tight pinch with a bad gang.  Will you stand by me or
see me go alone?"

Then John Beeman, silently, and with pale face, gave Dale's
hand a powerful grip, and one by one the other brothers rose
to do likewise.  Their eyes flashed with hard glint and a
strange bitterness hovered around their thin lips.

"Milt, mebbe we know what Beasley is better 'n you," said
John, at length.  "He ruined my father.  He's cheated other
Mormons.  We boys have proved to ourselves thet he gets the
sheep Anson's gang steals. . . .  An' drives the herds to
Phenix!  Our people won't let us accuse Beasley.  So we've
suffered in silence.  My father always said, let some one
else say the first word against Beasley, an' you've come to
us!"

Roy Beeman put a hand on Dale's shoulder.  He, perhaps, was
the keenest of the brothers and the one to whom adventure
and peril called most.  He had been oftenest with Dale, on
many a long trail, and he was the hardest rider and the most
relentless tracker in all that range country.

"An' we're goin' with you," he said, in a strong and rolling
voice.

They resumed their seats before the fire.  John threw on more
wood, and with a crackling and sparkling the blaze curled
up, fanned by the wind.  As twilight deepened into night the
moan in the pines increased to a roar.  A pack of coyotes
commenced to pierce the air in staccato cries.

The five young men conversed long and earnestly,
considering, planning, rejecting ideas advanced by each.
Dale and Roy Beeman suggested most of what became acceptable
to all.  Hunters of their type resembled explorers in slow
and deliberate attention to details.  What they had to deal
with here was a situation of unlimited possibilities; the
horses and outfit needed; a long detour to reach Magdalena
unobserved; the rescue of a strange girl who would no doubt
be self-willed and determined to ride on the stage -- the
rescue forcible, if necessary; the fight and the inevitable
pursuit; the flight into the forest, and the safe delivery
of the girl to Auchincloss.

"Then, Milt, will we go after Beasley?" queried Roy Beeman,
significantly.

Dale was silent and thoughtful.

"Sufficient unto the day!" said John.  "An' fellars, let's go
to bed."

They rolled out their tarpaulins, Dale sharing Roy's
blankets, and soon were asleep, while the red embers slowly
faded, and the great roar of wind died down, and the forest
stillness set in.



CHAPTER IV

Helen Rayner had been on the westbound overland train fully
twenty-four hours before she made an alarming discovery.

Accompanied by her sister Bo, a precocious girl of sixteen,
Helen had left St.  Joseph with a heart saddened by farewells
to loved ones at home, yet full of thrilling and vivid
anticipations of the strange life in the Far West.  All her
people had the pioneer spirit; love of change, action,
adventure, was in her blood.  Then duty to a widowed mother
with a large and growing family had called to Helen to
accept this rich uncle's offer.  She had taught school and
also her little brothers and sisters; she had helped along
in other ways.  And now, though the tearing up of the roots
of old loved ties was hard, this opportunity was
irresistible in its call.  The prayer of her dreams had been
answered.  To bring good fortune to her family; to take care
of this beautiful, wild little sister; to leave the yellow,
sordid, humdrum towns for the great, rolling, boundless
open; to live on a wonderful ranch that was some day to be
her own; to have fulfilled a deep, instinctive, and
undeveloped love of horses, cattle, sheep, of desert and
mountain, of trees and brooks and wild flowers -- all this
was the sum of her most passionate longings, now in some
marvelous, fairylike way to come true.

A check to her happy anticipations, a blank, sickening dash
of cold water upon her warm and intimate dreams, had been
the discovery that Harve Riggs was on the train.  His
presence could mean only one thing -- that he had followed
her.  Riggs had been the worst of many sore trials back there
in St.  Joseph.  He had possessed some claim or influence upon
her mother, who favored his offer of marriage to Helen; he
was neither attractive, nor good, nor industrious, nor
anything that interested her; he was the boastful, strutting
adventurer, not genuinely Western, and he affected long hair
and guns and notoriety.  Helen had suspected the veracity of
the many fights he claimed had been his, and also she
suspected that he was not really big enough to be bad -- as
Western men were bad.  But on the train, in the station at La
Junta, one glimpse of him, manifestly spying upon her while
trying to keep out of her sight, warned Helen that she now
might have a problem on her hands.

The recognition sobered her.  All was not to be a road of
roses to this new home in the West.  Riggs would follow her,
if he could not accompany her, and to gain his own ends he
would stoop to anything.  Helen felt the startling
realization of being cast upon her own resources, and then a
numbing discouragement and loneliness and helplessness.  But
these feelings did not long persist in the quick pride and
flash of her temper.  Opportunity knocked at her door and she
meant to be at home to it.  She would not have been Al
Auchincloss's niece if she had faltered.  And, when temper
was succeeded by genuine anger, she could have laughed to
scorn this Harve Riggs and his schemes, whatever they were.
Once and for all she dismissed fear of him.  When she left
St.  Joseph she had faced the West with a beating heart and a
high resolve to be worthy of that West.  Homes had to be made
out there in that far country, so Uncle Al had written, and
women were needed to make homes.  She meant to be one of
these women and to make of her sister another.  And with the
thought that she would know definitely what to say to Riggs
when he approached her, sooner or later, Helen dismissed him
from mind.

While the train was in motion, enabling Helen to watch the
ever-changing scenery, and resting her from the strenuous
task of keeping Bo well in hand at stations, she lapsed
again into dreamy gaze at the pine forests and the red,
rocky gullies and the dim, bold mountains.  She saw the sun
set over distant ranges of New Mexico -- a golden blaze of
glory, as new to her as the strange fancies born in her,
thrilling and fleeting by.  Bo's raptures were not silent,
and the instant the sun sank and the color faded she just as
rapturously importuned Helen to get out the huge basket of
food they had brought from home.

They had two seats, facing each other, at the end of the
coach, and piled there, with the basket on top, was luggage
that constituted all the girls owned in the world.  Indeed,
it was very much more than they had ever owned before,
because their mother, in her care for them and desire to
have them look well in the eyes of this rich uncle, had
spent money and pains to give them pretty and serviceable
clothes.

The girls sat together, with the heavy basket on their
knees, and ate while they gazed out at the cool, dark
ridges.  The train clattered slowly on, apparently over a
road that was all curves.  And it was supper-time for
everybody in that crowded coach.  If Helen had not been so
absorbed by the great, wild mountain-land she would have had
more interest in the passengers.  As it was she saw them, and
was amused and thoughtful at the men and women and a few
children in the car, all middle-class people, poor and
hopeful, traveling out there to the New West to find homes.
It was splendid and beautiful, this fact, yet it inspired a
brief and inexplicable sadness.  From the train window, that
world of forest and crag, with its long bare reaches
between, seemed so lonely, so wild, so unlivable.  How
endless the distance!  For hours and miles upon miles no
house, no hut, no Indian tepee!  It was amazing, the length
and breadth of this beautiful land.  And Helen, who loved
brooks and running streams, saw no water at all.

Then darkness settled down over the slow-moving panorama; a
cool night wind blew in at the window; white stars began to
blink out of the blue.  The sisters, with hands clasped and
heads nestled together, went to sleep under a heavy cloak.


Early the next morning, while the girls were again delving
into their apparently bottomless basket, the train stopped
at Las Vegas.

"Look!  Look!" cried Bo, in thrilling voice.  "Cowboys!  Oh,
Nell, look!"

Helen, laughing, looked first at her sister, and thought how
most of all she was good to look at.  Bo was little, instinct
with pulsating life, and she had chestnut hair and dark-blue
eyes.  These eyes were flashing, roguish, and they drew like
magnets.

Outside on the rude station platform were railroad men,
Mexicans, and a group of lounging cowboys.  Long, lean,
bow-legged fellows they were, with young, frank faces and
intent eyes.  One of them seemed particularly attractive with
his superb build, his red-bronze face and bright-red scarf,
his swinging gun, and the huge, long, curved spurs.
Evidently he caught Bo's admiring gaze, for, with a word to
his companions, he sauntered toward the window where the
girls sat.  His gait was singular, almost awkward, as if he
was not accustomed to walking.  The long spurs jingled
musically.  He removed his sombrero and stood at ease, frank,
cool, smiling.  Helen liked him on sight, and, looking to see
what effect he had upon Bo, she found that young lady
staring, frightened stiff.

"Good mawnin'," drawled the cowboy, with slow, good-humored
smile.  "Now where might you-all be travelin'?"

The sound of his voice, the clean-cut and droll geniality;
seemed new and delightful to Helen.

"We go to Magdalena -- then take stage for the White
Mountains," replied Helen.

The cowboy's still, intent eyes showed surprise.

"Apache country, miss," he said.  "I reckon I'm sorry.  Thet's
shore no place for you-all . . .  Beggin' your pawdin -- you
ain't Mormons?"

"No.  We're nieces of Al Auchincloss," rejoined Helen.

"Wal, you don't say!  I've been down Magdalena way an' heerd
of Al. . . .  Reckon you're goin' a-visitin'?"

"It's to be home for us."

"Shore thet's fine.  The West needs girls. . . .  Yes, I've
heerd of Al.  An old Arizona cattle-man in a sheep country!
Thet's bad. . . .  Now I'm wonderin' -- if I'd drift down
there an' ask him for a job ridin' for him -- would I get
it?"

His lazy smile was infectious and his meaning was as clear
as crystal water.  The gaze he bent upon Bo somehow pleased
Helen.  The last year or two, since Bo had grown prettier all
the time, she had been a magnet for admiring glances.  This
one of the cowboy's inspired respect and liking, as well as
amusement.  It certainly was not lost upon Bo.

"My uncle once said in a letter that he never had enough men
to run his ranch," replied Helen, smiling.

"Shore I'll go.  I reckon I'd jest naturally drift that way
-- now."

He seemed so laconic, so easy, so nice, that he could not
have been taken seriously, yet Helen's quick perceptions
registered a daring, a something that was both sudden and
inevitable in him.  His last word was as clear as the soft
look he fixed upon Bo.

Helen had a mischievous trait, which, subdue it as she
would, occasionally cropped out; and Bo, who once in her
wilful life had been rendered speechless, offered such a
temptation.

"Maybe my little sister will put in a good word for you --
to Uncle Al," said Helen.  Just then the train jerked, and
started slowly.  The cowboy took two long strides beside the
car, his heated boyish face almost on a level with the
window, his eyes, now shy and a little wistful, yet bold,
too, fixed upon Bo.

"Good-by -- Sweetheart!" he called.

He halted -- was lost to view.

"Well!" ejaculated Helen, contritely, half sorry, half
amused.  "What a sudden young gentleman!"

Bo had blushed beautifully.

"Nell, wasn't he glorious!" she burst out, with eyes
shining.

"I'd hardly call him that, but he was--nice," replied Helen,
much relieved that Bo had apparently not taken offense at
her.

It appeared plain that Bo resisted a frantic desire to look
out of the window and to wave her hand.  But she only peeped
out, manifestly to her disappointment.

"Do you think he -- he'll come to Uncle Al's?" asked Bo.

"Child, he was only in fun."

"Nell, I'll bet you he comes.  Oh, it'd be great!  I'm going
to love cowboys.  They don't look like that Harve Riggs who
ran after you so."

Helen sighed, partly because of the reminder of her odious
suitor, and partly because Bo's future already called
mysteriously to the child.  Helen had to be at once a mother
and a protector to a girl of intense and wilful spirit.

One of the trainmen directed the girls' attention to a
green, sloping mountain rising to a bold, blunt bluff of
bare rock; and, calling it Starvation Peak, he told a story
of how Indians had once driven Spaniards up there and
starved them.  Bo was intensely interested, and thereafter
she watched more keenly than ever, and always had a question
for a passing trainman.  The adobe houses of the Mexicans
pleased her, and, then the train got out into Indian
country, where pueblos appeared near the track and Indians
with their bright colors and shaggy wild mustangs -- then
she was enraptured.

"But these Indians are peaceful!" she exclaimed once,
regretfully.

"Gracious, child!  You don't want to see hostile Indians, do
you?" queried Helen.

"I do, you bet," was the frank rejoinder.

"Well, I'LL bet that I'll be sorry I didn't leave you with
mother."

"Nell -- you never will!"


They reached Albuquerque about noon, and this important
station, where they had to change trains, had been the first
dreaded anticipation of the journey.  It certainly was a busy
place -- full of jabbering Mexicans, stalking, red-faced,
wicked-looking cowboys, lolling Indians.  In the confusion
Helen would have been hard put to it to preserve calmness,
with Bo to watch, and all that baggage to carry, and the
other train to find; but the kindly brakeman who had been
attentive to them now helped them off the train into the
other -- a service for which Helen was very grateful.

"Albuquerque's a hard place," confided the trainman.  "Better
stay in the car -- and don't hang out the windows. . . .
Good luck to you!"

Only a few passengers were in the car and they were Mexicans
at the forward end.  This branch train consisted of one
passenger-coach, with a baggage-car, attached to a string of
freight-cars.  Helen told herself, somewhat grimly, that soon
she would know surely whether or not her suspicions of Harve
Riggs had warrant.  If he was going on to Magdalena on that
day he must go in this coach.  Presently Bo, who was not
obeying admonitions, drew her head out of the window.  Her
eyes were wide in amaze, her mouth open.

"Nell!  I saw that man Riggs!" she whispered.  "He's going to
get on this train."

"Bo, I saw him yesterday," replied Helen, soberly.

"He's followed you -- the -- the --"

"Now, Bo, don't get excited," remonstrated Helen.  "We've
left home now.  We've got to take things as they come.  Never
mind if Riggs has followed me.  I'll settle him."

"Oh!  Then you won't speak -- have anything to do with him?"

"I won't if I can help it."

Other passengers boarded the train, dusty, uncouth, ragged
men, and some hard-featured, poorly clad women, marked by
toil, and several more Mexicans.  With bustle and loud talk
they found their several seats.

Then Helen saw Harve Riggs enter, burdened with much
luggage.  He was a man of about medium height, of dark,
flashy appearance, cultivating long black mustache and hair.
His apparel was striking, as it consisted of black
frock-coat, black trousers stuffed in high, fancy-topped
boots, an embroidered vest, and flowing tie, and a black
sombrero.  His belt and gun were prominent.  It was
significant that he excited comment among the other
passengers.

When he had deposited his pieces of baggage he seemed to
square himself, and, turning abruptly, approached the seat
occupied by the girls.  When he reached it he sat down upon
the arm of the one opposite, took off his sombrero, and
deliberately looked at Helen.  His eyes were light, glinting,
with hard, restless quiver, and his mouth was coarse and
arrogant.  Helen had never seen him detached from her home
surroundings, and now the difference struck cold upon her
heart.

"Hello, Nell!" he said.  "Surprised to see me?"

"No," she replied, coldly.

"I'll gamble you are."

"Harve Riggs, I told you the day before I left home that
nothing you could do or say mattered to me."

"Reckon that ain't so, Nell.  Any woman I keep track of has
reason to think.  An' you know it."

"Then you followed me -- out here?" demanded Helen, and her
voice, despite her control, quivered with anger.

"I sure did," he replied, and there was as much thought of
himself in the act as there was of her.

"Why?  Why?  It's useless -- hopeless."

"I swore I'd have you, or nobody else would," he replied,
and here, in the passion of his voice there sounded egotism
rather than hunger for a woman's love.  "But I reckon I'd
have struck West anyhow, sooner or later."

"You're not going to -- all the way -- to Pine?" faltered
Helen, momentarily weakening.

"Nell, I'll camp on your trail from now on," he declared.

Then Bo sat bolt-upright, with pale face and flashing eyes.

"Harve Riggs, you leave Nell alone," she burst out, in
ringing, brave young voice.  "I'll tell you what -- I'll bet
-- if you follow her and nag her any more, my uncle Al or
some cowboy will run you out of the country."

"Hello, Pepper!" replied Riggs, coolly.  "I see your manners
haven't improved an' you're still wild about cowboys."

"People don't have good manners with -- with --"

"Bo, hush!" admonished Helen.  It was difficult to reprove Bo
just then, for that young lady had not the slightest fear of
Riggs.  Indeed, she looked as if she could slap his face.  And
Helen realized that however her intelligence had grasped the
possibilities of leaving home for a wild country, and
whatever her determination to be brave, the actual beginning
of self-reliance had left her spirit weak.  She would rise
out of that.  But just now this flashing-eyed little sister
seemed a protector.  Bo would readily adapt herself to the
West, Helen thought, because she was so young, primitive,
elemental.

Whereupon Bo turned her back to Riggs and looked out of the
window.  The man laughed.  Then he stood up and leaned over
Helen.

"Nell, I'm goin' wherever you go," he said, steadily.  "You
can take that friendly or not, just as it pleases you.  But
if you've got any sense you'll not give these people out
here a hunch against me.  I might hurt somebody. . . .  An'
wouldn't it be better -- to act friends?  For I'm goin' to
look after you, whether you like it or not."

Helen had considered this man an annoyance, and later a
menace, and now she must declare open enmity with him.
However disgusting the idea that he considered himself a
factor in her new life, it was the truth.  He existed, he had
control over his movements.  She could not change that.  She
hated the need of thinking so much about him; and suddenly,
with a hot, bursting anger, she hated the man.

"You'll not look after me.  I'll take care of myself," she
said, and she turned her back upon him.  She heard him mutter
under his breath and slowly move away down the car.  Then Bo
slipped a hand in hers.

"Never mind, Nell," she whispered.  "You know what old
Sheriff Haines said about Harve Riggs.  'A four-flush
would-be gun-fighter!  If he ever strikes a real Western town
he'll get run out of it.' I just wish my red-faced cowboy
had got on this train!"

Helen felt a rush of gladness that she had yielded to Bo's
wild importunities to take her West.  The spirit which had
made Bo incorrigible at home probably would make her react
happily to life out in this free country.  Yet Helen, with
all her warmth and gratefulness, had to laugh at her sister.

"Your red-faced cowboy!  Why, Bo, you were scared stiff.  And
now you claim him!"

"I certainly could love that fellow," replied Bo, dreamily.

"Child, you've been saying that about fellows for a long
time.  And you've never looked twice at any of them yet."

"He was different. . . .  Nell, I'll bet he comes to Pine."

"I hope he does.  I wish he was on this train.  I liked his
looks, Bo."

"Well, Nell dear, he looked at ME first and last -- so don't
get your hopes up. . . .  Oh, the train's starting!  . . .
Good-by, Albu-ker -- what's that awful name?  . . .  Nell,
let's eat dinner.  I'm starved."

Then Helen forgot her troubles and the uncertain future, and
what with listening to Bo's chatter, and partaking again of
the endless good things to eat in the huge basket, and
watching the noble mountains, she drew once more into happy
mood.

The valley of the Rio Grande opened to view, wide near at
hand in a great gray-green gap between the bare black
mountains, narrow in the distance, where the yellow river
wound away, glistening under a hot sun.  Bo squealed in glee
at sight of naked little Mexican children that darted into
adobe huts as the train clattered by, and she exclaimed her
pleasure in the Indians, and the mustangs, and particularly
in a group of cowboys riding into town on spirited horses.
Helen saw all Bo pointed out, but it was to the wonderful
rolling valley that her gaze clung longest, and to the dim
purple distance that seemed to hold something from her.  She
had never before experienced any feeling like that; she had
never seen a tenth so far.  And the sight awoke something
strange in her.  The sun was burning hot, as she could tell
when she put a hand outside the window, and a strong wind
blew sheets of dry dust at the train.  She gathered at once
what tremendous factors in the Southwest were the sun and
the dust and the wind.  And her realization made her love
them.  It was there; the open, the wild, the beautiful, the
lonely land; and she felt the poignant call of blood in her
-- to seek, to strive, to find, to live.  One look down that
yellow valley, endless between its dark iron ramparts, had
given her understanding of her uncle.  She must be like him
in spirit, as it was claimed she resembled him otherwise.

At length Bo grew tired of watching scenery that contained
no life, and, with her bright head on the faded cloak, she
went to sleep.  But Helen kept steady, farseeing gaze out
upon that land of rock and plain; and during the long hours,
as she watched through clouds of dust and veils of heat,
some strong and doubtful and restless sentiment seemed to
change and then to fix.  It was her physical acceptance --
her eyes and her senses taking the West as she had already
taken it in spirit.

A woman should love her home wherever fate placed her, Helen
believed, and not so much from duty as from delight and
romance and living.  How could life ever be tedious or
monotonous out here in this tremendous vastness of bare
earth and open sky, where the need to achieve made thinking
and pondering superficial?

It was with regret that she saw the last of the valley of
the Rio Grande, and then of its paralleled mountain ranges.
But the miles brought compensation in other valleys, other
bold, black upheavals of rock, and then again bare,
boundless yellow plains, and sparsely cedared ridges, and
white dry washes, ghastly in the sunlight, and dazzling beds
of alkali, and then a desert space where golden and blue
flowers bloomed.

She noted, too, that the whites and yellows of earth and
rock had begun to shade to red -- and this she knew meant an
approach to Arizona.  Arizona, the wild, the lonely, the red
desert, the green plateau -- Arizona with its thundering
rivers, its unknown spaces, its pasture-lands and
timber-lands, its wild horses, cowboys, outlaws, wolves and
lions and savages!  As to a boy, that name stirred and
thrilled and sang to her of nameless, sweet, intangible
things, mysterious and all of adventure.  But she, being a
girl of twenty, who had accepted responsibilities, must
conceal the depths of her heart and that which her mother
had complained was her misfortune in not being born a boy.

Time passed, while Helen watched and learned and dreamed.
The train stopped, at long intervals, at wayside stations
where there seemed nothing but adobe sheds and lazy
Mexicans, and dust and heat.  Bo awoke and began to chatter,
and to dig into the basket.  She learned from the conductor
that Magdalena was only two stations on.  And she was full of
conjectures as to who would meet them, what would happen.  So
Helen was drawn back to sober realities, in which there was
considerable zest.  Assuredly she did not know what was going
to happen.  Twice Riggs passed up and down the aisle, his
dark face and light eyes and sardonic smile deliberately
forced upon her sight.  But again Helen fought a growing
dread with contemptuous scorn.  This fellow was not half a
man.  It was not conceivable what he could do, except annoy
her, until she arrived at Pine.  Her uncle was to meet her or
send for her at Snowdrop, which place, Helen knew, was
distant a good long ride by stage from Magdalena.  This
stage-ride was the climax and the dread of all the long
journey, in Helen's considerations.

"Oh, Nell!" cried Bo, with delight.  "We're nearly there!
Next station, the conductor said."

"I wonder if the stage travels at night," said Helen,
thoughtfully.

"Sure it does!" replied the irrepressible Bo.

The train, though it clattered along as usual, seemed to
Helen to fly.  There the sun was setting over bleak New
Mexican bluffs, Magdalena was at hand, and night, and
adventure.  Helen's heart beat fast.  She watched the yellow
plains where the cattle grazed; their presence, and
irrigation ditches and cottonwood-trees told her that the
railroad part of the journey was nearly ended.  Then, at Bo's
little scream, she looked across the car and out of the
window to see a line of low, flat, red-adobe houses.  The
train began to slow down.  Helen saw children run, white
children and Mexican together; then more houses, and high
upon a hill an immense adobe church, crude and glaring, yet
somehow beautiful.

Helen told Bo to put on her bonnet, and, performing a like
office for herself, she was ashamed of the trembling of her
fingers.  There were bustle and talk in the car.

The train stopped.  Helen peered out to see a straggling
crowd of Mexicans and Indians, all motionless and stolid, as
if trains or nothing else mattered.  Next Helen saw a white
man, and that was a relief.  He stood out in front of the
others.  Tall and broad, somehow striking, he drew a second
glance that showed him to be a hunter clad in gray-fringed
buckskin, and carrying a rifle.



CHAPTER V

Here, there was no kindly brakeman to help the sisters with
their luggage.  Helen bade Bo take her share; thus burdened,
they made an awkward and laborious shift to get off the
train.

Upon the platform of the car a strong hand seized Helen's
heavy bag, with which she was straining, and a loud voice
called out:

"Girls, we're here -- sure out in the wild an' woolly West!"

The speaker was Riggs, and he had possessed himself of part
of her baggage with action and speech meant more to impress
the curious crowd than to be really kind.  In the excitement
of arriving Helen had forgotten him.  The manner of sudden
reminder -- the insincerity of it -- made her temper flash.
She almost fell, encumbered as she was, in her hurry to
descend the steps.  She saw the tall hunter in gray step
forward close to her as she reached for the bag Riggs held.

"Mr.  Riggs, I'll carry my bag," she said.

"Let me lug this.  You help Bo with hers," he replied,
familiarly.

"But I want it," she rejoined, quietly, with sharp
determination.  No little force was needed to pull the bag
away from Riggs.

"See here, Helen, you ain't goin' any farther with that
joke, are you?" he queried, deprecatingly, and he still
spoke quite loud.

"It's no joke to me," replied Helen.  "I told you I didn't
want your attention."

"Sure.  But that was temper.  I'm your friend -- from your
home town.  An' I ain't goin' to let a quarrel keep me from
lookin' after you till you're safe at your uncle's."

Helen turned her back upon him.  The tall hunter had just
helped Bo off the car.  Then Helen looked up into a smooth
bronzed face and piercing gray eyes.

"Are you Helen Rayner?" he asked.

"Yes."

"My name's Dale.  I've come to meet you."

"Ah!  My uncle sent you?" added Helen, in quick relief.

"No; I can't say Al sent me," began the man, "but I reckon
--"

He was interrupted by Riggs, who, grasping Helen by the arm,
pulled her back a step.

"Say, mister, did Auchincloss send you to meet my young
friends here?" he demanded, arrogantly.

Dale's glance turned from Helen to Riggs.  She could not read
this quiet gray gaze, but it thrilled her.

"No.  I come on my own hook," he answered.

"You'll understand, then -- they're in my charge," added
Riggs.

This time the steady light-gray eyes met Helen's, and if
there was not a smile in them or behind them she was still
further baffled.

"Helen, I reckon you said you didn't want this fellow's
attention."

"I certainly said that," replied Helen, quickly.  Just then
Bo slipped close to her and gave her arm a little squeeze.
Probably Bo's thought was like hers -- here was a real
Western man.  That was her first impression, and following
swiftly upon it was a sensation of eased nerves.

Riggs swaggered closer to Dale.

"Say, Buckskin, I hail from Texas --"

"You're wastin' our time an' we've need to hurry,"
interrupted Dale.  His tone seemed friendly.  "An' if you ever
lived long in Texas you wouldn't pester a lady an' you sure
wouldn't talk like you do."

"What!" shouted Riggs, hotly.  He dropped his right hand
significantly to his hip.

"Don't throw your gun.  It might go off," said Dale.

Whatever Riggs's intention had been -- and it was probably
just what Dale evidently had read it -- he now flushed an
angry red and jerked at his gun.

Dale's hand flashed too swiftly for Helen's eye to follow
it.  But she heard the thud as it struck.  The gun went flying
to the platform and scattered a group of Indians and
Mexicans.

"You'll hurt yourself some day," said Dale.

Helen had never heard a slow, cool voice like this hunter's.
Without excitement or emotion or hurry, it yet seemed full
and significant of things the words did not mean.  Bo uttered
a strange little exultant cry.

Riggs's arm had dropped limp.  No doubt it was numb.  He
stared, and his predominating expression was surprise.  As
the shuffling crowd began to snicker and whisper, Riggs gave
Dale a malignant glance, shifted it to Helen, and then
lurched away in the direction of his gun.

Dale did not pay any more attention to him.  Gathering up
Helen's baggage, he said, "Come on," and shouldered a lane
through the gaping crowd.  The girls followed close at his
heels.

"Nell!  what 'd I tell you?" whispered Bo.  "Oh, you're all
atremble!"

Helen was aware of her unsteadiness; anger and fear and
relief in quick succession had left her rather weak.  Once
through the motley crowd of loungers, she saw an old gray
stage-coach and four lean horses.  A grizzled, sunburned man
sat on the driver's seat, whip and reins in hand.  Beside him
was a younger man with rifle across his knees.  Another man,
young, tall, lean, dark, stood holding the coach door open.
He touched his sombrero to the girls.  His eyes were sharp as
he addressed Dale.

"Milt, wasn't you held up?"

"No.  But some long-haired galoot was tryin' to hold up the
girls.  Wanted to throw his gun on me.  I was sure scared,"
replied Dale, as he deposited the luggage.

Bo laughed.  Her eyes, resting upon Dale, were warm and
bright.  The young man at the coach door took a second look
at her, and then a smile changed the dark hardness of his
face.

Dale helped the girls up the high step into the stage, and
then, placing the lighter luggage, in with them, he threw
the heavier pieces on top.

"Joe, climb up," he said.

"Wal, Milt," drawled the driver, "let's ooze along."

Dale hesitated, with his hand on the door.  He glanced at the
crowd, now edging close again, and then at Helen.

"I reckon I ought to tell you," he said, and indecision
appeared to concern him.

"What?" exclaimed Helen.

"Bad news.  But talkin' takes time.  An' we mustn't lose any."

"There's need of hurry?" queried Helen, sitting up sharply.

"I reckon."

"Is this the stage to Snowdrop?

"No.  That leaves in the mornin'.  We rustled this old trap to
get a start to-night."

"The sooner the better.  But I -- I don't understand," said
Helen, bewildered.

"It'll not be safe for you to ride on the mornin' stage,"
returned Dale.

"Safe!  Oh, what do you mean?" exclaimed Helen.
Apprehensively she gazed at him and then back at Bo.

"Explainin' will take time.  An' facts may change your mind.
But if you can't trust me --"

"Trust you!" interposed Helen, blankly.  "You mean to take us
to Snowdrop?"

"I reckon we'd better go roundabout an' not hit Snowdrop,"
he replied, shortly.

"Then to Pine -- to my uncle -- Al Auchincloss?

"Yes, I'm goin' to try hard."

Helen caught her breath.  She divined that some peril menaced
her.  She looked steadily, with all a woman's keenness, into
this man's face.  The moment was one of the fateful decisions
she knew the West had in store for her.  Her future and that
of Bo's were now to be dependent upon her judgments.  It was
a hard moment and, though she shivered inwardly, she
welcomed the initial and inevitable step.  This man Dale, by
his dress of buckskin, must be either scout or hunter.  His
size, his action, the tone of his voice had been reassuring.
But Helen must decide from what she saw in his face whether
or not to trust him.  And that face was clear bronze,
unlined, unshadowed, like a tranquil mask, clean-cut,
strong-jawed, with eyes of wonderful transparent gray.

"Yes, I'll trust you," she said.  "Get in, and let us hurry.
Then you can explain."

"All ready, Bill.  Send 'em along," called Dale.

He had to stoop to enter the stage, and, once in, he
appeared to fill that side upon which he sat.  Then the
driver cracked his whip; the stage lurched and began to
roll; the motley crowd was left behind.  Helen awakened to
the reality, as she saw Bo staring with big eyes at the
hunter, that a stranger adventure than she had ever dreamed
of had began with the rattling roll of that old stage-coach.

Dale laid off his sombrero and leaned forward, holding his
rifle between his knees.  The light shone better upon his
features now that he was bareheaded.  Helen had never seen a
face like that, which at first glance appeared darkly
bronzed and hard, and then became clear, cold, aloof, still,
intense.  She wished she might see a smile upon it.  And now
that the die was cast she could not tell why she had trusted
it.  There was singular force in it, but she did not
recognize what kind of force.  One instant she thought it was
stern, and the next that it was sweet, and again that it was
neither.

"I'm glad you've got your sister," he said, presently.

"How did you know she's my sister?"

"I reckon she looks like you."

"No one else ever thought so," replied Helen, trying to
smile.

Bo had no difficulty in smiling, as she said, "Wish I was
half as pretty as Nell."

"Nell.  Isn't your name Helen?" queried Dale.

"Yes.  But my -- some few call me Nell."

"I like Nell better than Helen.  An' what's yours?" went on
Dale, looking at Bo.

"Mine's Bo.  Just plain B-o.  Isn't it silly?  But I wasn't
asked when they gave it to me," she replied.

"Bo.  It's nice an' short.  Never heard it before.  But I
haven't met many people for years."

"Oh!  we've left the town!" cried Bo.  "Look, Nell!  How bare!
It's just like desert."

"It is desert.  We've forty miles of that before we come to a
hill or a tree."

Helen glanced out.  A flat, dull-green expanse waved away
from the road on and on to a bright, dark horizon-line,
where the sun was setting rayless in a clear sky.  Open,
desolate, and lonely, the scene gave her a cold thrill.

"Did your uncle Al ever write anythin' about a man named
Beasley?" asked Dale.

"Indeed he did," replied Helen, with a start of surprise.
"Beasley! That name is familiar to us -- and detestable. My uncle
complained of this man for years. Then he grew bitter -- accused
Beasley. But the last year or so not a word!"

"Well, now," began the hunter, earnestly, "let's get the bad
news over.  I'm sorry you must be worried.  But you must learn
to take the West as it is.  There's good an' bad, maybe more
bad.  That's because the country's young. . . .  So to come
right out with it -- this Beasley hired a gang of outlaws to
meet the stage you was goin' in to Snowdrop -- to-morrow --
an' to make off with you."

"Make off with me?" ejaculated Helen, bewildered.

"Kidnap you!  Which, in that gang, would be worse than
killing you!" declared Dale, grimly, and he closed a huge
fist on his knee.

Helen was utterly astounded.

"How hor-rible!" she gasped out.  "Make off with me!  . . .
What in Heaven's name for?"

Bo gave vent to a fierce little utterance.

"For reasons you ought to guess," replied Dale, and he
leaned forward again.  Neither his voice nor face changed in
the least, but yet there was a something about him that
fascinated Helen.  "I'm a hunter.  I live in the woods.  A few
nights ago I happened to be caught out in a storm an' I took
to an old log cabin.  Soon as I got there I heard horses.  I
hid up in the loft.  Some men rode up an' come in.  It was
dark.  They couldn't see me.  An' they talked.  It turned out
they were Snake Anson an' his gang of sheep-thieves.  They
expected to meet Beasley there.  Pretty soon he came.  He told
Anson how old Al, your uncle, was on his last legs -- how he
had sent for you to have his property when he died.  Beasley
swore he had claims on Al.  An' he made a deal with Anson to
get you out of the way.  He named the day you were to reach
Magdalena.  With Al dead an' you not there, Beasley could get
the property.  An' then he wouldn't care if you did come to
claim it.  It 'd be too late. . . .  Well, they rode away that
night.  An' next day I rustled down to Pine.  They're all my
friends at Pine, except old Al.  But they think I'm queer.  I
didn't want to confide in many people.  Beasley is strong in
Pine, an' for that matter I suspect Snake Anson has other
friends there besides Beasley.  So I went to see your uncle.
He never had any use for me because he thought I was lazy
like an Indian.  Old Al hates lazy men.  Then we fell out --
or he fell out -- because he believed a tame lion of mine
had killed some of his sheep.  An' now I reckon that Tom
might have done it.  I tried to lead up to this deal of
Beasley's about you, but old Al wouldn't listen.  He's cross
-- very cross.  An' when I tried to tell him, why, he went
right out of his head.  Sent me off the ranch.  Now I reckon
you begin to see what a pickle I was in.  Finally I went to
four friends I could trust.  They're Mormon boys -- brothers.
That's Joe out on top, with the driver.  I told them all
about Beasley's deal an' asked them to help me.  So we
planned to beat Anson an' his gang to Magdalena.  It happens
that Beasley is as strong in Magdalena as he is in Pine.  An'
we had to go careful.  But the boys had a couple of friends
here -- Mormons, too, who agreed to help us.  They had this
old stage. . . .  An' here you are." Dale spread out his big
hands and looked gravely at Helen and then at Bo.

"You're perfectly splendid!" cried Bo, ringingly.  She was
white; her fingers were clenched; her eyes blazed.

Dale appeared startled out of his gravity, and surprised,
then pleased.  A smile made his face like a boy's.  Helen felt
her body all rigid, yet slightly trembling.  Her hands were
cold.  The horror of this revelation held her speechless.  But
in her heart she echoed Bo's exclamation of admiration and
gratitude.

"So far, then," resumed Dale, with a heavy breath of relief.
"No wonder you're upset.  I've a blunt way of talkin'. . . .
Now we've thirty miles to ride on this Snowdrop road before
we can turn off.  To-day sometime the rest of the boys --
Roy, John, an' Hal -- were to leave Show Down, which's a
town farther on from Snowdrop.  They have my horses an' packs
besides their own.  Somewhere on the road we'll meet them --
to-night, maybe -- or tomorrow.  I hope not to-night, because
that 'd mean Anson's gang was ridin' in to Magdalena."

Helen wrung her hands helplessly.

"Oh, have I no courage?" she whispered.

"Nell, I'm as scared as you are," said Bo, consolingly,
embracing her sister.

"I reckon that's natural," said Dale, as if excusing them.
"But, scared or not, you both brace up.  It's a bad job.  But
I've done my best.  An' you'll be safer with me an' the
Beeman boys than you'd be in Magdalena, or anywhere else,
except your uncle's."

"Mr.  -- Mr.  Dale," faltered Helen, with her tears falling,
"don't think me a coward -- or -- or ungrateful.  I'm
neither.  It's only I'm so -- so shocked.  After all we hoped
and expected -- this -- this -- is such a -- a terrible
surprise."

"Never mind, Nell dear.  Let's take what comes," murmured Bo.

"That's the talk," said Dale.  "You see, I've come right out
with the worst.  Maybe we'll get through easy.  When we meet
the boys we'll take to the horses an' the trails.  Can you
ride?"

"Bo has been used to horses all her life and I ride fairly
well," responded Helen.  The idea of riding quickened her
spirit.

"Good!  We may have some hard ridin' before I get you up to
Pine.  Hello!  What's that?"

Above the creaking, rattling, rolling roar of the stage
Helen heard a rapid beat of hoofs.  A horse flashed by,
galloping hard.

Dale opened the door and peered out.  The stage rolled to a
halt.  He stepped down and gazed ahead.

"Joe, who was that?" he queried.

"Nary me.  An' Bill didn't know him, either," replied Joe.  "I
seen him 'way back.  He was ridin' some.  An' he slowed up
goin' past us.  Now he's runnin' again."

Dale shook his head as if he did not like the circumstances.

"Milt, he'll never get by Roy on this road," said Joe.

"Maybe he'll get by before Roy strikes in on the road."

"It ain't likely."

Helen could not restrain her fears.  "Mr.  Dale, you think he
was a messenger -- going ahead to post that -- that Anson
gang?"

"He might be," replied Dale, simply.

Then the young man called Joe leaned out from the seat above
and called: "Miss Helen, don't you worry.  Thet fellar is
more liable to stop lead than anythin' else."

His words, meant to be kind and reassuring, were almost as
sinister to Helen as the menace to her own life.  Long had
she known how cheap life was held in the West, but she had
only known it abstractly, and she had never let the fact
remain before her consciousness.  This cheerful young man
spoke calmly of spilling blood in her behalf.  The thought it
roused was tragic -- for bloodshed was insupportable to her
-- and then the thrills which followed were so new, strange,
bold, and tingling that they were revolting.  Helen grew
conscious of unplumbed depths, of instincts at which she was
amazed and ashamed.

"Joe, hand down that basket of grub -- the small one with
the canteen," said Dale, reaching out a long arm.  Presently
he placed a cloth-covered basket inside the stage.  "Girls,
eat all you want an' then some."

"We have a basket half full yet," replied Helen.

"You'll need it all before we get to Pine. . . .  Now, I'll
ride up on top with the boys an' eat my supper.  It'll be
dark, presently, an' we'll stop often to listen.  But don't
be scared."

With that he took his rifle and, closing the door, clambered
up to the driver's seat.  Then the stage lurched again and
began to roll along.

Not the least thing to wonder at of this eventful evening
was the way Bo reached for the basket of food.  Helen simply
stared at her.

"Bo, you CAN'T EAT!" she exclaimed.

"I should smile I can," replied that practical young lady.
"And you're going to if I have to stuff things in your
mouth.  Where's your wits, Nell?  He said we must eat.  That
means our strength is going to have some pretty severe
trials. . . .  Gee!  it's all great -- just like a story!  The
unexpected -- why, he looks like a prince turned hunter!  --
long, dark, stage journey -- held up -- fight -- escape --
wild ride on horses -- woods and camps and wild places --
pursued -- hidden in the forest -- more hard rides -- then
safe at the ranch.  And of course he falls madly in love with
me -- no, you, for I'll be true to my Las Vegas lover --"

"Hush, silly!  Bo, tell me, aren't you SCARED?"

"Scared!  I'm scared stiff.  But if Western girls stand such
things, we can.  No Western girl is going to beat ME!"

That brought Helen to a realization of the brave place she
had given herself in dreams, and she was at once ashamed of
herself and wildly proud of this little sister.

"Bo, thank Heaven I brought you with me!" exclaimed Helen,
fervently.  "I'll eat if it chokes me."

Whereupon she found herself actually hungry, and while she
ate she glanced out of the stage, first from one side and
then from the other.  These windows had no glass and they let
the cool night air blow in.  The sun had long since sunk.  Out
to the west, where a bold, black horizon-line swept away
endlessly, the sky was clear gold, shading to yellow and
blue above.  Stars were out, pale and wan, but growing
brighter.  The earth appeared bare and heaving, like a calm
sea.  The wind bore a fragrance new to Helen, acridly sweet
and clean, and it was so cold it made her fingers numb.

"I heard some animal yelp," said Bo, suddenly, and she
listened with head poised.

But Helen heard nothing save the steady clip-clop of hoofs,
the clink of chains, the creak and rattle of the old stage,
and occasionally the low voices of the men above.

When the girls had satisfied hunger and thirst, night had
settled down black.  They pulled the cloaks up over them, and
close together leaned back in a corner of the seat and
talked in whispers.  Helen did not have much to say, but Bo
was talkative.

"This beats me!" she said once, after an interval.  "Where
are we, Nell?  Those men up there are Mormons.  Maybe they are
abducting us!"

"Mr.  Dale isn't a Mormon," replied Helen.

"How do you know?"

"I could tell by the way he spoke of his friends."

"Well, I wish it wasn't so dark.  I'm not afraid of men in
daylight. . . .  Nell, did you ever see such a wonderful
looking fellow?  What'd they call him?  Milt -- Milt Dale.  He
said he lived in the woods.  If I hadn't fallen in love with
that cowboy who called me -- well, I'd be a goner now."

After an interval of silence Bo whispered, startlingly,
"Wonder if Harve Riggs is following us now?"

"Of course he is," replied Helen, hopelessly.

"He'd better look out.  Why, Nell, he never saw -- he never
-- what did Uncle Al used to call it?  -- sav -- savvied --
that's it.  Riggs never savvied that hunter.  But I did, you
bet."

"Savvied!  What do you mean, Bo?"

"I mean that long-haired galoot never saw his real danger.
But I felt it.  Something went light inside me.  Dale never
took him seriously at all."

"Riggs will turn up at Uncle Al's, sure as I'm born," said
Helen.

"Let him turn," replied Bo, contemptuously.  "Nell, don't you
ever bother your head again about him.  I'll bet they're all
men out here.  And I wouldn't be in Harve Riggs's boots for a
lot."

After that Bo talked of her uncle and his fatal illness, and
from that she drifted back to the loved ones at home, now
seemingly at the other side of the world, and then she broke
down and cried, after which she fell asleep on Helen's
shoulder.

But Helen could not have fallen asleep if she had wanted to.

She had always, since she could remember, longed for a
moving, active life; and for want of a better idea she had
chosen to dream of gipsies.  And now it struck her grimly
that, if these first few hours of her advent in the West
were forecasts of the future, she was destined to have her
longings more than fulfilled.

Presently the stage rolled slower and slower, until it came
to a halt.  Then the horses heaved, the harnesses clinked,
the men whispered.  Otherwise there was an intense quiet.  She
looked out, expecting to find it pitch-dark.  It was black,
yet a transparent blackness.  To her surprise she could see a
long way.  A shooting-star electrified her.  The men were
listening.  She listened, too, but beyond the slight sounds
about the stage she heard nothing.  Presently the driver
clucked to his horses, and travel was resumed.

For a while the stage rolled on rapidly, evidently downhill,
swaying from side to side, and rattling as if about to fall
to pieces.  Then it slowed on a level, and again it halted
for a few moments, and once more in motion it began a
laborsome climb.  Helen imagined miles had been covered.  The
desert appeared to heave into billows, growing rougher, and
dark, round bushes dimly stood out.  The road grew uneven and
rocky, and when the stage began another descent its violent
rocking jolted Bo out of her sleep and in fact almost out of
Helen's arms.

"Where am I?" asked Bo, dazedly.

"Bo, you're having your heart's desire, but I can't tell you
where you are," replied Helen.

Bo awakened thoroughly, which fact was now no wonder,
considering the jostling of the old stage.

"Hold on to me, Nell!  . . .  Is it a runaway?"

"We've come about a thousand miles like this, I think,"
replied Helen.  "I've not a whole bone in my body."

Bo peered out of the window.

"Oh, how dark and lonesome!  But it'd be nice if it wasn't so
cold.  I'm freezing."

"I thought you loved cold air," taunted Helen.

"Say, Nell, you begin to talk like yourself," responded Bo.

It was difficult to hold on to the stage and each other and
the cloak all at once, but they succeeded, except in the
roughest places, when from time to time they were bounced
around.  Bo sustained a sharp rap on the head.

"Oooooo!" she moaned.  "Nell Rayner, I'll never forgive you
for fetching me on this awful trip."

"Just think of your handsome Las Vegas cowboy," replied
Helen.

Either this remark subdued Bo or the suggestion sufficed to
reconcile her to the hardships of the ride.

Meanwhile, as they talked and maintained silence and tried
to sleep, the driver of the stage kept at his task after the
manner of Western men who knew how to get the best out of
horses and bad roads and distance.

By and by the stage halted again and remained at a
standstill for so long, with the men whispering on top, that
Helen and Bo were roused to apprehension.

Suddenly a sharp whistle came from the darkness ahead.

"Thet's Roy," said Joe Beeman, in a low voice.

"I reckon.  An' meetin' us so quick looks bad," replied Dale.
"Drive on, Bill."

"Mebbe it seems quick to you," muttered the driver, "but if
we hain't come thirty mile, an' if thet ridge thar hain't
your turnin'-off place, why, I don't know nothin'."

The stage rolled on a little farther, while Helen and Bo sat
clasping each other tight, wondering with bated breath what
was to be the next thing to happen.

Then once more they were at a standstill.  Helen heard the
thud of boots striking the ground, and the snorts of horses.

"Nell, I see horses," whispered Bo, excitedly.  "There, to
the side of the road . . .  and here comes a man. . . .  Oh,
if he shouldn't be the one they're expecting!"

Helen peered out to see a tall, dark form, moving silently,
and beyond it a vague outline of horses, and then pale
gleams of what must have been pack-loads.

Dale loomed up, and met the stranger in the road.

"Howdy, Milt?  You got the girl sure, or you wouldn't be
here," said a low voice.

"Roy, I've got two girls -- sisters," replied Dale.

The man Roy whistled softly under his breath.  Then another
lean, rangy form strode out of the darkness, and was met by
Dale.

"Now, boys -- how about Anson's gang?" queried Dale.

"At Snowdrop, drinkin' an' quarrelin'.  Reckon they'll leave
there about daybreak," replied Roy.

"How long have you been here?"

"Mebbe a couple of hours."

"Any horse go by?"

"No."

"Roy, a strange rider passed us before dark.  He was hittin'
the road.  An' he's got by here before you came."

"I don't like thet news," replied Roy, tersely.  "Let's
rustle.  With girls on hossback you'll need all the start you
can get.  Hey, John?"

"Snake Anson shore can foller hoss tracks," replied the
third man.

"Milt, say the word," went on Roy, as he looked up at the
stars.  "Daylight not far away.  Here's the forks of the road,
an' your hosses, an' our outfit.  You can be in the pines by
sunup."

In the silence that ensued Helen heard the throb of her
heart and the panting little breaths of her sister.  They
both peered out, hands clenched together, watching and
listening in strained attention.

"It's possible that rider last night wasn't a messenger to
Anson," said Dale.  "In that case Anson won't make anythin'
of our wheel tracks or horse tracks.  He'll go right on to
meet the regular stage.  Bill, can you go back an' meet the
stage comin' before Anson does?"

"Wal, I reckon so -- an' take it easy at thet," replied
Bill.

"All right," continued Dale, instantly.  "John, you an' Joe
an' Hal ride back to meet the regular stage.  An' when you
meet it get on an' be on it when Anson holds it up."

"Thet's shore agreeable to me," drawled John.

"I'd like to be on it, too," said Roy, grimly.

"No.  I'll need you till I'm safe in the woods.  Bill, hand
down the bags.  An' you, Roy, help me pack them.  Did you get
all the supplies I wanted?"

"Shore did.  If the young ladies ain't powerful particular
you can feed them well for a couple of months."

Dale wheeled and, striding to the stage, he opened the door.

"Girls, you're not asleep?  Come," he called.

Bo stepped down first.

"I was asleep till this -- this vehicle fell off the road
back a ways," she replied.

Roy Beeman's low laugh was significant.  He took off his
sombrero and stood silent.  The old driver smothered a loud
guffaw.

"Veehicle!  Wal, I'll be doggoned!  Joe, did you hear thet?
All the spunky gurls ain't born out West."

As Helen followed with cloak and bag Roy assisted her, and
she encountered keen eyes upon her face.  He seemed both
gentle and respectful, and she felt his solicitude.  His
heavy gun, swinging low, struck her as she stepped down.

Dale reached into the stage and hauled out baskets and bags.
These he set down on the ground.

"Turn around, Bill, an' go along with you.  John an' Hal will
follow presently," ordered Dale.

"Wal, gurls," said Bill, looking down upon them, "I was shore
powerful glad to meet you-all.  An' I'm ashamed of my country
-- offerin' two sich purty gurls insults an' low-down
tricks.  But shore you'll go through safe now.  You couldn't
be in better company fer ridin' or huntin' or marryin' or
gittin' religion --"

"Shut up, you old grizzly!" broke in Dale, sharply.

"Haw!  Haw!  Good-by, gurls, an' good luck!" ended Bill, as he
began to whip the reins.

Bo said good-by quite distinctly, but Helen could only
murmur hers.  The old driver seemed a friend.

Then the horses wheeled and stamped, the stage careened and
creaked, presently to roll out of sight in the gloom.

"You're shiverin'," said Dale, suddenly, looking down upon
Helen.  She felt his big, hard hand clasp hers.  "Cold as
ice!"

"I am c-cold," replied Helen.  "I guess we're not warmly
dressed."

"Nell, we roasted all day, and now we're freezing," declared
Bo.  "I didn't know it was winter at night out here."

"Miss, haven't you some warm gloves an' a coat?" asked Roy,
anxiously.  "It 'ain't begun to get cold yet."

"Nell, we've heavy gloves, riding-suits and boots -- all
fine and new -- in this black bag," said Bo,
enthusiastically kicking a bag at her feet.

"Yes, so we have.  But a lot of good they'll do us,
to-night," returned Helen.

"Miss, you'd do well to change right here," said Roy,
earnestly.  "It'll save time in the long run an' a lot of
sufferin' before sunup."

Helen stared at the young man, absolutely amazed with his
simplicity.  She was advised to change her traveling-dress
for a riding-suit -- out somewhere in a cold, windy desert
-- in the middle of the night -- among strange young men!

"Bo, which bag is it?" asked Dale, as if she were his
sister.  And when she indicated the one, he picked it up.
"Come off the road."

Bo followed him, and Helen found herself mechanically at
their heels.  Dale led them a few paces off the road behind
some low bushes.

"Hurry an' change here," he said.  "We'll make a pack of your
outfit an' leave room for this bag."

Then he stalked away and in a few strides disappeared.

Bo sat down to begin unlacing her shoes.  Helen could just
see her pale, pretty face and big, gleaming eyes by the
light of the stars.  It struck her then that Bo was going to
make eminently more of a success of Western life than she
was.

"Nell, those fellows are n-nice," said Bo, reflectively.
"Aren't you c-cold?  Say, he said hurry!"

It was beyond Helen's comprehension how she ever began to
disrobe out there in that open, windy desert, but after she
had gotten launched on the task she found that it required
more fortitude than courage.  The cold wind pierced right
through her.  Almost she could have laughed at the way Bo
made things fly.

"G-g-g-gee!" chattered Bo.  "I n-never w-was so c-c-cold in
all my life.  Nell Rayner, m-may the g-good Lord forgive
y-you!"

Helen was too intent on her own troubles to take breath to
talk.  She was a strong, healthy girl, swift and efficient
with her hands, yet this, the hardest physical ordeal she
had ever experienced, almost overcame her.  Bo outdistanced
her by moments, helped her with buttons, and laced one whole
boot for her.  Then, with hands that stung, Helen packed the
traveling-suits in the bag.

"There!  But what an awful mess!" exclaimed Helen.  "Oh, Bo,
our pretty traveling-dresses!"

"We'll press them t-to-morrow -- on a l-log," replied Bo,
and she giggled.

They started for the road.  Bo, strange to note, did not
carry her share of the burden, and she seemed unsteady on
her feet.

The men were waiting beside a group of horses, one of which
carried a pack.

"Nothin' slow about you," said Dale, relieving Helen of the
grip.  "Roy, put them up while I sling on this bag."

Roy led out two of the horses.

"Get up," he said, indicating Bo.  "The stirrups are short on
this saddle."

Bo was an adept at mounting, but she made such awkward and
slow work of it in this instance that Helen could not
believe her eyes.

"Haw 're the stirrups?" asked Roy.  "Stand in them.  Guess
they're about right. . . .  Careful now!  Thet hoss is
skittish.  Hold him in."

Bo was not living up to the reputation with which Helen had
credited her.

"Now, miss, you get up," said Roy to Helen.  And in another
instant she found herself astride a black, spirited horse.
Numb with cold as she was, she yet felt the coursing thrills
along her veins.

Roy was at the stirrups with swift hands.

"You're taller 'n I guessed," he said.  "Stay up, but lift
your foot. . . .  Shore now, I'm glad you have them thick,
soft boots.  Mebbe we'll ride all over the White Mountains."

"Bo, do you hear that?" called Helen.

But Bo did not answer.  She was leaning rather unnaturally in
her saddle.  Helen became anxious.  Just then Dale strode back
to them.

"All cinched up, Roy?"

"Jest ready," replied Roy.

Then Dale stood beside Helen.  How tall he was!  His wide
shoulders seemed on a level with the pommel of her saddle.
He put an affectionate hand on the horse.

"His name's Ranger an' he's the fastest an' finest horse in
this country."

"I reckon he shore is -- along with my bay," corroborated
Roy.

"Roy, if you rode Ranger he'd beat your pet," said Dale.  "We
can start now.  Roy, you drive the pack-horses."

He took another look at Helen's saddle and then moved to do
likewise with Bo's.

"Are you -- all right?" he asked, quickly.

Bo reeled in her seat.

"I'm n-near froze," she replied, in a faint voice.  Her face
shone white in the starlight.  Helen recognized that Bo was
more than cold.

"Oh, Bo!" she called, in distress.

"Nell, don't you worry, now."

"Let me carry you," suggested Dale.

"No.  I'll s-s-stick on this horse or d-die," fiercely
retorted Bo.

The two men looked up at her white face and then at each
other.  Then Roy walked away toward the dark bunch of horses
off the road and Dale swung astride the one horse left.

"Keep close to me," he said.

Bo fell in line and Helen brought up the rear.

Helen imagined she was near the end of a dream.  Presently
she would awaken with a start and see the pale walls of her
little room at home, and hear the cherry branches brushing
her window, and the old clarion-voiced cock proclaim the
hour of dawn.



CHAPTER VI

The horses trotted.  And the exercise soon warmed Helen,
until she was fairly comfortable except in her fingers.  In
mind, however, she grew more miserable as she more fully
realized her situation.  The night now became so dark that,
although the head of her horse was alongside the flank of
Bo's, she could scarcely see Bo.  From time to time Helen's
anxious query brought from her sister the answer that she
was all right.

Helen had not ridden a horse for more than a year, and for
several years she had not ridden with any regularity.
Despite her thrills upon mounting, she had entertained
misgivings.  But she was agreeably surprised, for the horse,
Ranger, had an easy gait, and she found she had not
forgotten how to ride.  Bo, having been used to riding on a
farm near home, might be expected to acquit herself
admirably.  It occurred to Helen what a plight they would
have been in but for the thick, comfortable riding outfits.

Dark as the night was, Helen could dimly make out the road
underneath.  It was rocky, and apparently little used.  When
Dale turned off the road into the low brush or sage of what
seemed a level plain, the traveling was harder, rougher, and
yet no slower.  The horses kept to the gait of the leaders.
Helen, discovering it unnecessary, ceased attempting to
guide Ranger.  There were dim shapes in the gloom ahead, and
always they gave Helen uneasiness, until closer approach
proved them to be rocks or low, scrubby trees.  These
increased in both size and number as the horses progressed.
Often Helen looked back into the gloom behind.  This act was
involuntary and occasioned her sensations of dread.  Dale
expected to be pursued.  And Helen experienced, along with
the dread, flashes of unfamiliar resentment.  Not only was
there an attempt afoot to rob her of her heritage, but even
her personal liberty.  Then she shuddered at the significance
of Dale's words regarding her possible abduction by this
hired gang.  It seemed monstrous, impossible.  Yet, manifestly
it was true enough to Dale and his allies.  The West, then,
in reality was raw, hard, inevitable.

Suddenly her horse stopped.  He had come up alongside Bo's
horse.  Dale had halted ahead, and apparently was listening.
Roy and the pack-train were out of sight in the gloom.

"What is it?" whispered Helen.

"Reckon I heard a wolf," replied Dale.

"Was that cry a wolf's?" asked Bo.  "I heard.  It was wild."

"We're gettin' up close to the foot-hills," said Dale.  "Feel
how much colder the air is."

"I'm warm now," replied Bo.  "I guess being near froze was
what ailed me. . . .  Nell, how 're you?"

"I'm warm, too, but --" Helen answered.

"If you had your choice of being here or back home, snug in
bed -- which would you take?" asked Bo.

"Bo!" exclaimed Helen, aghast.

"Well, I'd choose to be right here on this horse," rejoined
Bo.

Dale heard her, for he turned an instant, then slapped his
horse and started on.

Helen now rode beside Bo, and for a long time they climbed
steadily in silence.  Helen knew when that dark hour before
dawn had passed, and she welcomed an almost imperceptible
lightening in the east.  Then the stars paled.  Gradually a
grayness absorbed all but the larger stars.  The great white
morning star, wonderful as Helen had never seen it, lost its
brilliance and life and seemed to retreat into the dimming
blue.

Daylight came gradually, so that the gray desert became
distinguishable by degrees.  Rolling bare hills, half
obscured by the gray lifting mantle of night, rose in the
foreground, and behind was gray space, slowly taking form
and substance.  In the east there was a kindling of pale rose
and silver that lengthened and brightened along a horizon
growing visibly rugged.

"Reckon we'd better catch up with Roy," said Dale, and he
spurred his horse.

Ranger and Bo's mount needed no other urging, and they swung
into a canter.  Far ahead the pack-animals showed with Roy
driving them.  The cold wind was so keen in Helen's face that
tears blurred her eyes and froze her cheeks.  And riding
Ranger at that pace was like riding in a rocking-chair.  That
ride, invigorating and exciting, seemed all too short.

"Oh, Nell, I don't care -- what becomes of -- me!" exclaimed
Bo, breathlessly.

Her face was white and red, fresh as a rose, her eyes
glanced darkly blue, her hair blew out in bright, unruly
strands.  Helen knew she felt some of the physical
stimulation that had so roused Bo, and seemed so
irresistible, but somber thought was not deflected thereby.

It was clear daylight when Roy led off round a knoll from
which patches of scrubby trees -- cedars, Dale called them
-- straggled up on the side of the foot-hills.

"They grow on the north slopes, where the snow stays
longest," said Dale.

They descended into a valley that looked shallow, but proved
to be deep and wide, and then began to climb another
foot-hill.  Upon surmounting it Helen saw the rising sun, and
so glorious a view confronted her that she was unable to
answer Bo's wild exclamations.

Bare, yellow, cedar-dotted slopes, apparently level, so
gradual was the ascent, stretched away to a dense ragged
line of forest that rose black over range after range, at
last to fail near the bare summit of a magnificent mountain,
sunrise-flushed against the blue sky.

"Oh, beautiful!" cried Bo.  "But they ought to be called
Black Mountains."

"Old Baldy, there, is white half the year," replied Dale.

"Look back an' see what you say," suggested Roy.

The girls turned to gaze silently.  Helen imagined she looked
down upon the whole wide world.  How vastly different was the
desert!  Verily it yawned away from her, red and gold near at
hand, growing softly flushed with purple far away, a barren
void, borderless and immense, where dark-green patches and
black lines and upheaved ridges only served to emphasize
distance and space.

"See thet little green spot," said Roy, pointing.  "Thet's
Snowdrop.  An' the other one -- 'way to the right -- thet's
Show Down."

"Where is Pine?" queried Helen, eagerly.

"Farther still, up over the foot-hills at the edge of the
woods."

"Then we're riding away from it."

"Yes.  If we'd gone straight for Pine thet gang could
overtake us.  Pine is four days' ride.  An' by takin' to the
mountains Milt can hide his tracks.  An' when he's thrown
Anson off the scent, then he'll circle down to Pine."

"Mr.  Dale, do you think you'll get us there safely -- and
soon?" asked Helen, wistfully.

"I won't promise soon, but I promise safe.  An' I don't like
bein' called Mister," he replied.

"Are we ever going to eat?" inquired Bo, demurely.

At this query Roy Beeman turned with a laugh to look at Bo.
Helen saw his face fully in the light, and it was thin and
hard, darkly bronzed, with eyes like those of a hawk, and
with square chin and lean jaws showing scant, light beard.

"We shore are," he replied.  "Soon as we reach the timber.
Thet won't be long."

"Reckon we can rustle some an' then take a good rest," said
Dale, and he urged his horse into a jog-trot.

During a steady trot for a long hour, Helen's roving eyes
were everywhere, taking note of the things from near to far
-- the scant sage that soon gave place to as scanty a grass,
and the dark blots that proved to be dwarf cedars, and the
ravines opening out as if by magic from what had appeared
level ground, to wind away widening between gray stone
walls, and farther on, patches of lonely pine-trees, two and
three together, and then a straggling clump of yellow
aspens, and up beyond the fringed border of forest, growing
nearer all the while, the black sweeping benches rising to
the noble dome of the dominant mountain of the range.

No birds or animals were seen in that long ride up toward
the timber, which fact seemed strange to Helen.  The air lost
something of its cold, cutting edge as the sun rose higher,
and it gained sweeter tang of forest-land.  The first faint
suggestion of that fragrance was utterly new to Helen, yet
it brought a vague sensation of familiarity and with it an
emotion as strange.  It was as if she had smelled that keen,
pungent tang long ago, and her physical sense caught it
before her memory.

The yellow plain had only appeared to be level.  Roy led down
into a shallow ravine, where a tiny stream meandered, and he
followed this around to the left, coming at length to a
point where cedars and dwarf pines formed a little grove.
Here, as the others rode up, he sat cross-legged in his
saddle, and waited.

"We'll hang up awhile," he said.  "Reckon you're tired?"

"I'm hungry, but not tired yet," replied Bo.

Helen dismounted, to find that walking was something she had
apparently lost the power to do.  Bo laughed at her, but she,
too, was awkward when once more upon the ground.

Then Roy got down.  Helen was surprised to find him lame.  He
caught her quick glance.

"A hoss threw me once an' rolled on me.  Only broke my
collar-bone, five ribs, one arm, an' my bow-legs in two
places!"

Notwithstanding this evidence that he was a cripple, as he
stood there tall and lithe in his homespun, ragged garments,
he looked singularly powerful and capable.

"Reckon walkin' around would be good for you girls," advised
Dale.  "If you ain't stiff yet, you'll be soon.  An' walkin'
will help.  Don't go far.  I'll call when breakfast's ready."


A little while later the girls were whistled in from their
walk and found camp-fire and meal awaiting them.  Roy was
sitting cross-legged, like an Indian, in front of a
tarpaulin, upon which was spread a homely but substantial
fare.  Helen's quick eye detected a cleanliness and
thoroughness she had scarcely expected to find in the camp
cooking of men of the wilds.  Moreover, the fare was good.
She ate heartily, and as for Bo's appetite, she was inclined
to be as much ashamed of that as amused at it.  The young men
were all eyes, assiduous in their service to the girls, but
speaking seldom.  It was not lost upon Helen how Dale's gray
gaze went often down across the open country.  She divined
apprehension from it rather than saw much expression in it.

"I -- declare," burst out Bo, when she could not eat any
more, "this isn't believable.  I'm dreaming. . . .  Nell, the
black horse you rode is the prettiest I ever saw."

Ranger, with the other animals, was grazing along the little
brook.  Packs and saddles had been removed.  The men ate
leisurely.  There was little evidence of hurried flight.  Yet
Helen could not cast off uneasiness.  Roy might have been
deep, and careless, with a motive to spare the girls'
anxiety, but Dale seemed incapable of anything he did not
absolutely mean.

"Rest or walk," he advised the girls.  "We've got forty miles
to ride before dark."

Helen preferred to rest, but Bo walked about, petting the
horses and prying into the packs.  She was curious and eager.

Dale and Roy talked in low tones while they cleaned up the
utensils and packed them away in a heavy canvas bag.

"You really expect Anson 'll strike my trail this mornin'?"
Dale was asking.

"I shore do," replied Roy.

"An' how do you figure that so soon?"

"How'd you figure it -- if you was Snake Anson?" queried
Roy, in reply.

"Depends on that rider from Magdalena," Said Dale, soberly.
"Although it's likely I'd seen them wheel tracks an' hoss
tracks made where we turned off.  But supposin' he does."

"Milt, listen.  I told you Snake met us boys face to face day
before yesterday in Show Down.  An' he was plumb curious."

"But he missed seein' or hearin' about me," replied Dale.

"Mebbe he did an' mebbe he didn't.  Anyway, what's the
difference whether he finds out this mornin' or this
evenin'?"

"Then you ain't expectin' a fight if Anson holds up the
stage?"

"Wal, he'd have to shoot first, which ain't likely.  John an'
Hal, since thet shootin'-scrape a year ago, have been sort
of gun-shy.  Joe might get riled.  But I reckon the best we
can be shore of is a delay.  An' it'd be sense not to count
on thet."

"Then you hang up here an' keep watch for Anson's gang --
say long enough so's to be sure they'd be in sight if they
find our tracks this mornin'.  Makin' sure one way or
another, you ride 'cross-country to Big Spring, where I'll
camp to-night."

Roy nodded approval of that suggestion.  Then without more
words both men picked up ropes and went after the horses.
Helen was watching Dale, so that when Bo cried out in great
excitement Helen turned to see a savage yellow little
mustang standing straight up on his hind legs and pawing the
air.  Roy had roped him and was now dragging him into camp.

"Nell, look at that for a wild pony!" exclaimed Bo.

Helen busied herself getting well out of the way of the
infuriated mustang.  Roy dragged him to a cedar near by.

"Come now, Buckskin," said Roy, soothingly, and he slowly
approached the quivering animal.  He went closer, hand over
hand, on the lasso.  Buckskin showed the whites of his eyes
and also his white teeth.  But he stood while Roy loosened
the loop and, slipping it down over his head, fastened it in
a complicated knot round his nose.

"Thet's a hackamore," he said, indicating the knot.  "He's
never had a bridle, an' never will have one, I reckon."

"You don't ride him?" queried Helen.

"Sometimes I do," replied Roy, with a smile.  "Would you
girls like to try him?"

"Excuse me," answered Helen.

"Gee!" ejaculated Bo.  "He looks like a devil.  But I'd tackle
him -- if you think I could."

The wild leaven of the West had found quick root in Bo
Rayner.

"Wal, I'm sorry, but I reckon I'll not let you -- for a
spell," replied Roy, dryly.

"He pitches somethin' powerful bad."

"Pitches.  You mean bucks?"

"I reckon."

In the next half-hour Helen saw more and learned more about
how horses of the open range were handled than she had ever
heard of.  Excepting Ranger, and Roy's bay, and the white
pony Bo rode, the rest of the horses had actually to be
roped and hauled into camp to be saddled and packed.  It was
a job for fearless, strong men, and one that called for
patience as well as arms of iron.  So that for Helen Rayner
the thing succeeding the confidence she had placed in these
men was respect.  To an observing woman that half-hour told
much.

When all was in readiness for a start Dale mounted, and
said, significantly: "Roy, I'll look for you about sundown.
I hope no sooner."

"Wal, it'd be bad if I had to rustle along soon with bad
news.  Let's hope for the best.  We've been shore lucky so
far.  Now you take to the pine-mats in the woods an' hide
your trail."

Dale turned away.  Then the girls bade Roy good-by, and
followed.  Soon Roy and his buckskin-colored mustang were
lost to sight round a clump of trees.

The unhampered horses led the way; the pack-animals trotted
after them; the riders were close behind.  All traveled at a
jog-trot.  And this gait made the packs bob up and down and
from side to side.  The sun felt warm at Helen's back and the
wind lost its frosty coldness, that almost appeared damp,
for a dry, sweet fragrance.  Dale drove up the shallow valley
that showed timber on the levels above and a black border of
timber some few miles ahead.  It did not take long to reach
the edge of the forest.

Helen wondered why the big pines grew so far on that plain
and no farther.  Probably the growth had to do with snow,
but, as the ground was level, she could not see why the edge
of the woods should come just there.

They rode into the forest.

To Helen it seemed a strange, critical entrance into another
world, which she was destined to know and to love.  The pines
were big, brown-barked, seamed, and knotted, with no typical
conformation except a majesty and beauty.  They grew far
apart.  Few small pines and little underbrush flourished
beneath them.  The floor of this forest appeared remarkable
in that it consisted of patches of high silvery grass and
wide brown areas of pine-needles.  These manifestly were what
Roy had meant by pine-mats.  Here and there a fallen monarch
lay riven or rotting.  Helen was presently struck with the
silence of the forest and the strange fact that the horses
seldom made any sound at all, and when they did it was a
cracking of dead twig or thud of hoof on log.  Likewise she
became aware of a springy nature of the ground.  And then she
saw that the pine-mats gave like rubber cushions under the
hoofs of the horses, and after they had passed sprang back
to place again, leaving no track.  Helen could not see a sign
of a trail they left behind.  Indeed, it would take a sharp
eye to follow Dale through that forest.  This knowledge was
infinitely comforting to Helen, and for the first time since
the flight had begun she felt a lessening of the weight upon
mind and heart.  It left her free for some of the
appreciation she might have had in this wonderful ride under
happier circumstances.

Bo, however, seemed too young, too wild, too intense to mind
what the circumstances were.  She responded to reality.  Helen
began to suspect that the girl would welcome any adventure,
and Helen knew surely now that Bo was a true Auchincloss.
For three long days Helen had felt a constraint with which
heretofore she had been unfamiliar; for the last hours it
had been submerged under dread.  But it must be, she
concluded, blood like her sister's, pounding at her veins to
be set free to race and to burn.

Bo loved action.  She had an eye for beauty, but she was not
contemplative.  She was now helping Dale drive the horses and
hold them in rather close formation.  She rode well, and as
yet showed no symptoms of fatigue or pain.  Helen began to be
aware of both, but not enough yet to limit her interest.

A wonderful forest without birds did not seem real to her.
Of all living creatures in nature Helen liked birds best,
and she knew many and could imitate the songs of a few.  But
here under the stately pines there were no birds.  Squirrels,
however, began to be seen here and there, and in the course
of an hour's travel became abundant.  The only one with which
she was familiar was the chipmunk.  All the others, from the
slim bright blacks to the striped russets and the
white-tailed grays, were totally new to her.  They appeared
tame and curious.  The reds barked and scolded at the passing
cavalcade; the blacks glided to some safe branch, there to
watch; the grays paid no especial heed to this invasion of
their domain.

Once Dale, halting his horse, pointed with long arm, and
Helen, following the direction, descried several gray deer
standing in a glade, motionless, with long ears up.  They
made a wild and beautiful picture.  Suddenly they bounded
away with remarkable springy strides.

The forest on the whole held to the level, open character,
but there were swales and stream-beds breaking up its
regular conformity.  Toward noon, however, it gradually
changed, a fact that Helen believed she might have observed
sooner had she been more keen.  The general lay of the land
began to ascend, and the trees to grow denser.

She made another discovery.  Ever since she had entered the
forest she had become aware of a fullness in her head and a
something affecting her nostrils.  She imagined, with regret,
that she had taken cold.  But presently her head cleared
somewhat and she realized that the thick pine odor of the
forest had clogged her nostrils as if with a sweet pitch.
The smell was overpowering and disagreeable because of its
strength.  Also her throat and lungs seemed to burn.

When she began to lose interest in the forest and her
surroundings it was because of aches and pains which would
no longer be denied recognition.  Thereafter she was not
permitted to forget them and they grew worse.  One,
especially, was a pain beyond all her experience.  It lay in
the muscles of her side, above her hip, and it grew to be a
treacherous thing, for it was not persistent.  It came and
went.  After it did come, with a terrible flash, it could be
borne by shifting or easing the body.  But it gave no
warning.  When she expected it she was mistaken; when she
dared to breathe again, then, with piercing swiftness, it
returned like a blade in her side.  This, then, was one of
the riding-pains that made a victim of a tenderfoot on a
long ride.  It was almost too much to be borne.  The beauty of
the forest, the living creatures to be seen scurrying away,
the time, distance -- everything faded before that stablike
pain.  To her infinite relief she found that it was the trot
that caused this torture.  When Ranger walked she did not
have to suffer it.  Therefore she held him to a walk as long
as she dared or until Dale and Bo were almost out of sight;
then she loped him ahead until he had caught up.

So the hours passed, the sun got around low, sending golden
shafts under the trees, and the forest gradually changed to
a brighter, but a thicker, color.  This slowly darkened.
Sunset was not far away.

She heard the horses splashing in water, and soon she rode
up to see the tiny streams of crystal water running swiftly
over beds of green moss.  She crossed a number of these and
followed along the last one into a more open place in the
forest where the pines were huge, towering, and far apart.  A
low, gray bluff of stone rose to the right, perhaps
one-third as high as the trees.  From somewhere came the
rushing sound of running water.

"Big Spring," announced Dale.  "We camp here.  You girls have
done well."

Another glance proved to Helen that all those little streams
poured from under this gray bluff.

"I'm dying for a drink," cried Bo with her customary
hyperbole.

"I reckon you'll never forget your first drink here,"
remarked Dale.

Bo essayed to dismount, and finally fell off, and when she
did get to the ground her legs appeared to refuse their
natural function, and she fell flat.  Dale helped her up.

"What's wrong with me, anyhow?" she demanded, in great
amaze.

"Just stiff, I reckon," replied Dale, as he led her a few
awkward steps.

"Bo, have you any hurts?" queried Helen, who still sat her
horse, loath to try dismounting, yet wanting to beyond all
words.

Bo gave her an eloquent glance.

"Nell, did you have one in your side, like a wicked, long
darning-needle, punching deep when you weren't ready?"

"That one I'll never get over!" exclaimed Helen, softly.
Then, profiting by Bo's experience, she dismounted
cautiously, and managed to keep upright.  Her legs felt like
wooden things.

Presently the girls went toward the spring.

"Drink slow," called out Dale.

Big Spring had its source somewhere deep under the gray,
weathered bluff, from which came a hollow subterranean
gurgle and roar of water.  Its fountainhead must have been a
great well rushing up through the cold stone.

Helen and Bo lay flat on a mossy bank, seeing their faces as
they bent over, and they sipped a mouthful, by Dale's
advice, and because they were so hot and parched and burning
they wanted to tarry a moment with a precious opportunity.

The water was so cold that it sent a shock over Helen, made
her teeth ache, and a singular, revivifying current steal
all through her, wonderful in its cool absorption of that
dry heat of flesh, irresistible in its appeal to thirst.
Helen raised her head to look at this water.  It was
colorless as she had found it tasteless.

"Nell -- drink!" panted Bo.  "Think of our -- old spring --
in the orchard -- full of pollywogs!"

And then Helen drank thirstily, with closed eyes, while a
memory of home stirred from Bo's gift of poignant speech.



CHAPTER VII

The first camp duty Dale performed was to throw a pack off
one of the horses, and, opening it, he took out tarpaulin
and blankets, which he arranged on the ground under a
pine-tree.

"You girls rest," he said, briefly.

"Can't we help?" asked Helen, though she could scarcely
stand.

"You'll be welcome to do all you like after you're broke
in."

"Broke in!" ejaculated Bo, with a little laugh.  "I'm all
broke UP now."

"Bo, it looks as if Mr.  Dale expects us to have quite a stay
with him in the woods."

"It does," replied Bo, as slowly she sat down upon the
blankets, stretched out with a long sigh, and laid her head
on a saddle.  "Nell, didn't he say not to call him Mister?"

Dale was throwing the packs off the other horses.

Helen lay down beside Bo, and then for once in her life she
experienced the sweetness of rest.

"Well, sister, what do you intend to call him?" queried
Helen, curiously.

"Milt, of course," replied Bo.

Helen had to laugh despite her weariness and aches.

"I suppose, then, when your Las Vegas cowboy comes along you
will call him what he called you."

Bo blushed, which was a rather unusual thing for her.

"I will if I like," she retorted.  "Nell, ever since I could
remember you've raved about the West.  Now you're OUT West,
right in it good and deep.  So wake up!"

That was Bo's blunt and characteristic way of advising the
elimination of Helen's superficialities.  It sank deep.  Helen
had no retort.  Her ambition, as far as the West was
concerned, had most assuredly not been for such a wild,
unheard-of jaunt as this.  But possibly the West -- a living
from day to day -- was one succession of adventures, trials,
tests, troubles, and achievements.  To make a place for
others to live comfortably some day!  That might be Bo's
meaning, embodied in her forceful hint.  But Helen was too
tired to think it out then.  She found it interesting and
vaguely pleasant to watch Dale.

He hobbled the horses and turned them loose.  Then with ax in
hand he approached a short, dead tree, standing among a few
white-barked aspens.  Dale appeared to advantage swinging the
ax.  With his coat off, displaying his wide shoulders,
straight back, and long, powerful arms, he looked a young
giant.  He was lithe and supple, brawny but not bulky.  The ax
rang on the hard wood, reverberating through the forest.  A
few strokes sufficed to bring down the stub.  Then he split
it up.  Helen was curious to see how he kindled a fire.  First
he ripped splinters out of the heart of the log, and laid
them with coarser pieces on the ground.  Then from a
saddlebag which hung on a near-by branch he took flint and
steel and a piece of what Helen supposed was rag or
buckskin, upon which powder had been rubbed.  At any rate,
the first strike of the steel brought sparks, a blaze, and
burning splinters.  Instantly the flame leaped a foot high.
He put on larger pieces of wood crosswise, and the fire
roared.

That done, he stood erect, and, facing the north, he
listened.  Helen remembered now that she had seen him do the
same thing twice before since the arrival at Big Spring.  It
was Roy for whom he was listening and watching.  The sun had
set and across the open space the tips of the pines were
losing their brightness.

The camp utensils, which the hunter emptied out of a sack,
gave forth a jangle of iron and tin.  Next he unrolled a
large pack, the contents of which appeared to be numerous
sacks of all sizes.  These evidently contained food supplies.
The bucket looked as if a horse had rolled over it, pack and
all.  Dale filled it at the spring.  Upon returning to the
camp-fire he poured water into a washbasin, and, getting
down to his knees, proceeded to wash his hands thoroughly.
The act seemed a habit, for Helen saw that while he was
doing it he gazed off into the woods and listened.  Then he
dried his hands over the fire, and, turning to the
spread-out pack, he began preparations for the meal.

Suddenly Helen thought of the man and all that his actions
implied.  At Magdalena, on the stage-ride, and last night,
she had trusted this stranger, a hunter of the White
Mountains, who appeared ready to befriend her.  And she had
felt an exceeding gratitude.  Still, she had looked at him
impersonally.  But it began to dawn upon her that chance had
thrown her in the company of a remarkable man.  That
impression baffled her.  It did not spring from the fact that
he was brave and kind to help a young woman in peril, or
that he appeared deft and quick at camp-fire chores.  Most
Western men were brave, her uncle had told her, and many
were roughly kind, and all of them could cook.  This hunter
was physically a wonderful specimen of manhood, with
something leonine about his stature.  But that did not give
rise to her impression.  Helen had been a school-teacher and
used to boys, and she sensed a boyish simplicity or vigor or
freshness in this hunter.  She believed, however, that it was
a mental and spiritual force in Dale which had drawn her to
think of it.

"Nell, I've spoken to you three times," protested Bo,
petulantly.  "What 're you mooning over?"

"I'm pretty tired -- and far away, Bo," replied Helen.  "What
did you say?"

"I said I had an e-normous appetite."

"Really.  That's not remarkable for you.  I'm too tired to
eat.  And afraid to shut my eyes.  They'd never come open.
When did we sleep last, Bo?"

"Second night before we left home," declared Bo.

"Four nights!  Oh, we've slept some."

"I'll bet I make mine up in this woods.  Do you suppose we'll
sleep right here -- under this tree -- with no covering?"

"It looks so," replied Helen, dubiously.

"How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Bo, in delight.  "We'll see
the stars through the pines."

"Seems to be clouding over.  Wouldn't it be awful if we had a
storm?"

"Why, I don't know," answered Bo, thoughtfully.  "It must
storm out West."

Again Helen felt a quality of inevitableness in Bo.  It was
something that had appeared only practical in the humdrum
home life in St.  Joseph.  All of a sudden Helen received a
flash of wondering thought -- a thrilling consciousness that
she and Bo had begun to develop in a new and wild
environment.  How strange, and fearful, perhaps, to watch
that growth!  Bo, being younger, more impressionable, with
elemental rather than intellectual instincts, would grow
stronger more swiftly.  Helen wondered if she could yield to
her own leaning to the primitive.  But how could anyone with
a thoughtful and grasping mind yield that way?  It was the
savage who did not think.

Helen saw Dale stand erect once more and gaze into the
forest.

"Reckon Roy ain't comin'," he soliloquized.  "An' that's
good." Then he turned to the girls.  "Supper's ready."

The girls responded with a spirit greater than their
activity.  And they ate like famished children that had been
lost in the woods.  Dale attended them with a pleasant light
upon his still face.

"To-morrow night we'll have meat," he said.

"What kind?" asked Bo.

"Wild turkey or deer.  Maybe both, if you like.  But it's well
to take wild meat slow.  An' turkey -- that 'll melt in your
mouth."

"Uummm!" murmured Bo, greedily.  "I've heard of wild turkey."

When they had finished Dale ate his meal, listening to the
talk of the girls, and occasionally replying briefly to some
query of Bo's.  It was twilight when he began to wash the
pots and pans, and almost dark by the time his duties
appeared ended.  Then he replenished the campfire and sat
down on a log to gaze into the fire.  The girls leaned
comfortably propped against the saddles.

"Nell, I'll keel over in a minute," said Bo.  "And I oughtn't
-- right on such a big supper."

"I don't see how I can sleep, and I know I can't stay
awake," rejoined Helen.

Dale lifted his head alertly.

"Listen."

The girls grew tense and still.  Helen could not hear a
sound, unless it was a low thud of hoof out in the gloom.
The forest seemed sleeping.  She knew from Bo's eyes, wide
and shining in the camp-fire light, that she, too, had
failed to catch whatever it was Dale meant.

"Bunch of coyotes comin'," he explained.

Suddenly the quietness split to a chorus of snappy,
high-strung, strange barks.  They sounded wild, yet they held
something of a friendly or inquisitive note.  Presently gray
forms could be descried just at the edge of the circle of
light.  Soft rustlings of stealthy feet surrounded the camp,
and then barks and yelps broke out all around.  It was a
restless and sneaking pack of animals, thought Helen; she
was glad after the chorus ended and with a few desultory,
spiteful yelps the coyotes went away.

Silence again settled down.  If it had not been for the
anxiety always present in Helen's mind she would have
thought this silence sweet and unfamiliarly beautiful.

"Ah!  Listen to that fellow," spoke up Dale.  His voice was
thrilling.

Again the girls strained their ears.  That was not necessary,
for presently, clear and cold out of the silence, pealed a
mournful howl, long drawn, strange and full and wild.

"Oh!  What's that?" whispered Bo.

"That's a big gray wolf -- a timber-wolf, or lofer, as he's
sometimes called," replied Dale.  "He's high on some rocky
ridge back there.  He scents us, an' he doesn't like it. . . .
There he goes again.  Listen!  Ah, he's hungry."

While Helen listened to this exceedingly wild cry -- so wild
that it made her flesh creep and the most indescribable
sensations of loneliness come over her -- she kept her
glance upon Dale.

"You love him?" she murmured involuntarily, quite without
understanding the motive of her query.

Assuredly Dale had never had that question asked of him
before, and it seemed to Helen, as he pondered, that he had
never even asked it of himself.

"I reckon so," he replied, presently.

"But wolves kill deer, and little fawns, and everything
helpless in the forest," expostulated Bo.

The hunter nodded his head.

"Why, then, can you love him?" repeated Helen.

"Come to think of it, I reckon it's because of lots of
reasons," returned Dale.  "He kills clean.  He eats no
carrion.  He's no coward.  He fights.  He dies game. . . .  An'
he likes to be alone."

"Kills clean.  What do you mean by that?"

"A cougar, now, he mangles a deer.  An' a silvertip, when
killin' a cow or colt, he makes a mess of it.  But a wolf
kills clean, with sharp snaps."

"What are a cougar and a silvertip?"

"Cougar means mountain-lion or panther, an' a silvertip is a
grizzly bear."

"Oh, they're all cruel!" exclaimed Helen, shrinking.

"I reckon.  Often I've shot wolves for relayin' a deer."

"What's that?"

"Sometimes two or more wolves will run a deer, an' while one
of them rests the other will drive the deer around to his
pardner, who'll, take up the chase.  That way they run the
deer down.  Cruel it is, but nature, an' no worse than snow
an' ice that starve deer, or a fox that kills turkey-chicks
breakin' out of the egg, or ravens that pick the eyes out of
new-born lambs an' wait till they die.  An' for that matter,
men are crueler than beasts of prey, for men add to nature,
an' have more than instincts."

Helen was silenced, as well as shocked.  She had not only
learned a new and striking viewpoint in natural history, but
a clear intimation to the reason why she had vaguely
imagined or divined a remarkable character in this man.  A
hunter was one who killed animals for their fur, for their
meat or horns, or for some lust for blood -- that was
Helen's definition of a hunter, and she believed it was held
by the majority of people living in settled states.  But the
majority might be wrong.  A hunter might be vastly different,
and vastly more than a tracker and slayer of game.  The
mountain world of forest was a mystery to almost all men.
Perhaps Dale knew its secrets, its life, its terror, its
beauty, its sadness, and its joy; and if so, how full, how
wonderful must be his mind!  He spoke of men as no better
than wolves.  Could a lonely life in the wilderness teach a
man that?  Bitterness, envy, jealousy, spite, greed, and hate
-- these had no place in this hunter's heart.  It was not
Helen's shrewdness, but a woman's intuition, which divined
that.

Dale rose to his feet and, turning his ear to the north,
listened once more.

"Are you expecting Roy still?" inquired Helen.

"No, it ain't likely he'll turn up to-night," replied Dale,
and then he strode over to put a hand on the pine-tree that
soared above where the girls lay.  His action, and the way he
looked up at the tree-top and then at adjacent trees, held
more of that significance which so interested Helen.

"I reckon he's stood there some five hundred years an' will
stand through to-night," muttered Dale.

This pine was the monarch of that wide-spread group.

"Listen again," said Dale.

Bo was asleep.  And Helen, listening, at once caught low,
distant roar.

"Wind.  It's goin' to storm," explained Dale.  "You'll hear
somethin' worth while.  But don't be scared.  Reckon we'll be
safe.  Pines blow down often.  But this fellow will stand any
fall wind that ever was. . . .  Better slip under the
blankets so I can pull the tarp up."

Helen slid down, just as she was, fully dressed except for
boots, which she and Bo had removed; and she laid her head
close to Bo's.  Dale pulled the tarpaulin up and folded it
back just below their heads.

"When it rains you'll wake, an' then just pull the tarp up
over you," he said.

"Will it rain?" Helen asked.  But she was thinking that this
moment was the strangest that had ever happened to her.  By
the light of the camp-fire she saw Dale's face, just as
usual, still, darkly serene, expressing no thought.  He was
kind, but he was not thinking of these sisters as girls,
alone with him in a pitch-black forest, helpless and
defenseless.  He did not seem to be thinking at all.  But
Helen had never before in her life been so keenly
susceptible to experience.

"I'll be close by an' keep the fire goin' all night," he
said.

She heard him stride off into the darkness.  Presently there
came a dragging, bumping sound, then a crash of a log
dropped upon the fire.  A cloud of sparks shot up, and many
pattered down to hiss upon the damp ground.  Smoke again
curled upward along the great, seamed tree-trunk, and flames
sputtered and crackled.

Helen listened again for the roar of wind.  It seemed to come
on a breath of air that fanned her cheek and softly blew
Bo's curls, and it was stronger.  But it died out presently,
only to come again, and still stronger.  Helen realized then
that the sound was that of an approaching storm.  Her heavy
eyelids almost refused to stay open, and she knew if she let
them close she would instantly drop to sleep.  And she wanted
to hear the storm-wind in the pines.

A few drops of cold rain fell upon her face, thrilling her
with the proof that no roof stood between her and the
elements.  Then a breeze bore the smell of burnt wood into
her face, and somehow her quick mind flew to girlhood days
when she burned brush and leaves with her little brothers.
The memory faded.  The roar that had seemed distant was now
back in the forest, coming swiftly, increasing in volume.
Like a stream in flood it bore down.  Helen grew amazed,
startled.  How rushing, oncoming, and heavy this storm-wind!
She likened its approach to the tread of an army.  Then the
roar filled the forest, yet it was back there behind her.
Not a pine-needle quivered in the light of the camp-fire.
But the air seemed to be oppressed with a terrible charge.
The roar augmented till it was no longer a roar, but an
on-sweeping crash, like an ocean torrent engulfing the
earth.  Bo awoke to cling to Helen with fright.  The deafening
storm-blast was upon them.  Helen felt the saddle-pillow move
under her head.  The giant pine had trembled to its very
roots.  That mighty fury of wind was all aloft, in the
tree-tops.  And for a long moment it bowed the forest under
its tremendous power.  Then the deafening crash passed to
roar, and that swept on and on, lessening in volume,
deepening in low detonation, at last to die in the distance.

No sooner had it died than back to the north another low
roar rose and ceased and rose again.  Helen lay there,
whispering to Bo, and heard again the great wave of wind
come and crash and cease.  That was the way of this
storm-wind of the mountain forest.

A soft patter of rain on the tarpaulin warned Helen to
remember Dale's directions, and, pulling up the heavy
covering, she arranged it hoodlike over the saddle.  Then,
with Bo close and warm beside her, she closed her eyes, and
the sense of the black forest and the wind and rain faded.
Last of all sensations was the smell of smoke that blew
under the tarpaulin.


When she opened her eyes she remembered everything, as if
only a moment had elapsed.  But it was daylight, though gray
and cloudy.  The pines were dripping mist.  A fire crackled
cheerily and blue smoke curled upward and a savory odor of
hot coffee hung in the air.  Horses were standing near by,
biting and kicking at one another.  Bo was sound asleep.  Dale
appeared busy around the camp-fire.  As Helen watched the
hunter she saw him pause in his task, turn his ear to
listen, and then look expectantly.  And at that juncture a
shout pealed from the forest.  Helen recognized Roy's voice.
Then she heard a splashing of water, and hoof-beats coming
closer.  With that the buckskin mustang trotted into camp,
carrying Roy.

"Bad mornin' for ducks, but good for us," he called.

"Howdy, Roy!" greeted Dale, and his gladness was
unmistakable.  "I was lookin' for you."

Roy appeared to slide off the mustang without effort, and
his swift hands slapped the straps as he unsaddled.  Buckskin
was wet with sweat and foam mixed with rain.  He heaved.  And
steam rose from him.

"Must have rode hard," observed Dale.

"I shore did," replied Roy.  Then he espied Helen, who had
sat up, with hands to her hair, and eyes staring at him.

"Mornin', miss.  It's good news."

"Thank Heaven!" murmured Helen, and then she shook Bo.  That
young lady awoke, but was loath to give up slumber.  "Bo!  Bo!
Wake up!  Mr.  Roy is back."

Whereupon Bo sat up, disheveled and sleepy-eyed.

"Oh-h, but I ache!" she moaned.  But her eyes took in the
camp scene to the effect that she added, "Is breakfast
ready?"

"Almost.  An' flapjacks this mornin'," replied Dale.

Bo manifested active symptoms of health in the manner with
which she laced her boots.  Helen got their traveling-bag,
and with this they repaired to a flat stone beside the
spring, not, however, out of earshot of the men.

"How long are you goin' to hang around camp before tellin'
me?" inquired Dale.

"Jest as I figgered, Milt," replied Roy.  "Thet rider who
passed you was a messenger to Anson.  He an' his gang got on
our trail quick.  About ten o'clock I seen them comin'.  Then
I lit out for the woods.  I stayed off in the woods close
enough to see where they come in.  An' shore they lost your
trail.  Then they spread through the woods, workin' off to
the south, thinkin', of course, thet you would circle round
to Pine on the south side of Old Baldy.  There ain't a
hoss-tracker in Snake Anson's gang, thet's shore.  Wal, I
follered them for an hour till they'd rustled some miles off
our trail.  Then I went back to where you struck into the
woods.  An' I waited there all afternoon till dark, expectin'
mebbe they'd back-trail.  But they didn't.  I rode on a ways
an' camped in the woods till jest before daylight."

"So far so good," declared Dale.

"Shore.  There's rough country south of Baldy an' along the
two or three trails Anson an' his outfit will camp, you
bet."

"It ain't to be thought of," muttered Dale, at some idea
that had struck him.

"What ain't?"

"Goin' round the north side of Baldy."

"It shore ain't," rejoined Roy, bluntly.

"Then I've got to hide tracks certain -- rustle to my camp
an' stay there till you say it's safe to risk takin' the
girls to Pine."

"Milt, you're talkin' the wisdom of the prophets."

"I ain't so sure we can hide tracks altogether.  If Anson had
any eyes for the woods he'd not have lost me so soon.

"No.  But, you see, he's figgerin' to cross your trail."

"If I could get fifteen or twenty mile farther on an' hide
tracks certain, I'd feel safe from pursuit, anyway," said
the hunter, reflectively.

"Shore an' easy," responded Roy, quickly.  "I jest met up
with some greaser sheep-herders drivin' a big flock.  They've
come up from the south an' are goin' to fatten up at Turkey
Senacas.  Then they'll drive back south an' go on to Phenix.
Wal, it's muddy weather.  Now you break camp quick an' make a
plain trail out to thet sheep trail, as if you was travelin'
south.  But, instead, you ride round ahead of thet flock of
sheep.  They'll keep to the open parks an' the trails through
them necks of woods out here.  An', passin' over your tracks,
they'll hide 'em."

"But supposin' Anson circles an' hits this camp?  He'll track
me easy out to that sheep trail.  What then?"

"Jest what you want.  Goin' south thet sheep trail is
downhill an' muddy.  It's goin' to rain hard.  Your tracks
would get washed out even if you did go south.  An' Anson
would keep on thet way till he was clear off the scent.
Leave it to me, Milt.  You're a hunter.  But I'm a
hoss-tracker."

"All right.  We'll rustle."

Then he called the girls to hurry.



CHAPTER VIII

Once astride the horse again, Helen had to congratulate
herself upon not being so crippled as she had imagined.
Indeed, Bo made all the audible complaints.

Both girls had long water-proof coats, brand-new, and of
which they were considerably proud.  New clothes had not been
a common event in their lives.

"Reckon I'll have to slit these," Dale had said, whipping
out a huge knife.

"What for?" had been Bo's feeble protest.

"They wasn't made for ridin'.  An' you'll get wet enough even
if I do cut them.  An' if I don't, you'll get soaked."

"Go ahead," had been Helen's reluctant permission.

So their long new coats were slit half-way up the back.  The
exigency of the case was manifest to Helen, when she saw how
they came down over the cantles of the saddles and to their
boot-tops.

The morning was gray and cold.  A fine, misty rain fell and
the trees dripped steadily.  Helen was surprised to see the
open country again and that apparently they were to leave
the forest behind for a while.  The country was wide and flat
on the right, and to the left it rolled and heaved along a
black, scalloped timber-line.  Above this bordering of the
forest low, drifting clouds obscured the mountains.  The wind
was at Helen's back and seemed to be growing stronger.  Dale
and Roy were ahead, traveling at a good trot, with the
pack-animals bunched before them.  Helen and Bo had enough to
do to keep up.

The first hour's ride brought little change in weather or
scenery, but it gave Helen an inkling of what she must
endure if they kept that up all day.  She began to welcome
the places where the horses walked, but she disliked the
levels.  As for the descents, she hated those.  Ranger would
not go down slowly and the shake-up she received was
unpleasant.  Moreover, the spirited black horse insisted on
jumping the ditches and washes.  He sailed over them like a
bird.  Helen could not acquire the knack of sitting the
saddle properly, and so, not only was her person bruised on
these occasions, but her feelings were hurt.  Helen had never
before been conscious of vanity.  Still, she had never
rejoiced in looking at a disadvantage, and her exhibitions
here must have been frightful.  Bo always would forge to the
front, and she seldom looked back, for which Helen was
grateful.

Before long they struck into a broad, muddy belt, full of
innumerable small hoof tracks.  This, then, was the sheep
trail Roy had advised following.  They rode on it for three
or four miles, and at length, coming to a gray-green valley,
they saw a huge flock of sheep.  Soon the air was full of
bleats and baas as well as the odor of sheep, and a low,
soft roar of pattering hoofs.  The flock held a compact
formation, covering several acres, and grazed along rapidly.
There were three herders on horses and several pack-burros.
Dale engaged one of the Mexicans in conversation, and passed
something to him, then pointed northward and down along the
trail.  The Mexican grinned from ear to ear, and Helen caught
the quick "SI, SENOR!  GRACIAS, SENOR!" It was a pretty
sight, that flock of sheep, as it rolled along like a
rounded woolly stream of grays and browns and here and there
a black.  They were keeping to a trail over the flats.  Dale
headed into this trail and, if anything, trotted a little
faster.

Presently the clouds lifted and broke, showing blue sky and
one streak of sunshine.  But the augury was without warrant.
The wind increased.  A huge black pall bore down from the
mountains and it brought rain that could be seen falling in
sheets from above and approaching like a swiftly moving
wall.  Soon it enveloped the fugitives.

With head bowed, Helen rode along for what seemed ages in a
cold, gray rain that blew almost on a level.  Finally the
heavy downpour passed, leaving a fine mist.  The clouds
scurried low and dark, hiding the mountains altogether and
making the gray, wet plain a dreary sight.  Helen's feet and
knees were as wet as if she had waded in water.  And they
were cold.  Her gloves, too, had not been intended for rain,
and they were wet through.  The cold bit at her fingers so
that she had to beat her hands together.  Ranger
misunderstood this to mean that he was to trot faster, which
event was worse for Helen than freezing.

She saw another black, scudding mass of clouds bearing down
with its trailing sheets of rain, and this one appeared
streaked with white.  Snow!  The wind was now piercingly cold.
Helen's body kept warm, but her extremities and ears began
to suffer exceedingly.  She gazed ahead grimly.  There was no
help; she had to go on.  Dale and Roy were hunched down in
their saddles, probably wet through, for they wore no
rain-proof coats.  Bo kept close behind them, and plain it
was that she felt the cold.

This second storm was not so bad as the first, because there
was less rain.  Still, the icy keenness of the wind bit into
the marrow.  It lasted for an hour, during which the horses
trotted on, trotted on.  Again the gray torrent roared away,
the fine mist blew, the clouds lifted and separated, and,
closing again, darkened for another onslaught.  This one
brought sleet.  The driving pellets stung Helen's neck and
cheeks, and for a while they fell so thick and so hard upon
her back that she was afraid she could not hold up under
them.  The bare places on the ground showed a sparkling
coverlet of marbles of ice.

Thus, storm after storm rolled over Helen's head.  Her feet
grew numb and ceased to hurt.  But her fingers, because of
her ceaseless efforts to keep up the circulation, retained
the stinging pain.  And now the wind pierced right through
her.  She marveled at her endurance, and there were many
times that she believed she could not ride farther.  Yet she
kept on.  All the winters she had ever lived had not brought
such a day as this.  Hard and cold, wet and windy, at an
increasing elevation -- that was the explanation.  The air
did not have sufficient oxygen for her blood.

Still, during all those interminable hours, Helen watched
where she was traveling, and if she ever returned over that
trail she would recognize it.  The afternoon appeared far
advanced when Dale and Roy led down into an immense basin
where a reedy lake spread over the flats.  They rode along
its margin, splashing up to the knees of the horses.  Cranes
and herons flew on with lumbering motion; flocks of ducks
winged swift flight from one side to the other.  Beyond this
depression the land sloped rather abruptly; outcroppings of
rock circled along the edge of the highest ground, and again
a dark fringe of trees appeared.

How many miles!  wondered Helen.  They seemed as many and as
long as the hours.  But at last, just as another hard rain
came, the pines were reached.  They proved to be widely
scattered and afforded little protection from the storm.

Helen sat her saddle, a dead weight.  Whenever Ranger
quickened his gait or crossed a ditch she held on to the
pommel to keep from falling off.  Her mind harbored only
sensations of misery, and a persistent thought -- why did
she ever leave home for the West?  Her solicitude for Bo had
been forgotten.  Nevertheless, any marked change in the
topography of the country was registered, perhaps
photographed on her memory by the torturing vividness of her
experience.

The forest grew more level and denser.  Shadows of twilight
or gloom lay under the trees.  Presently Dale and Roy,
disappeared, going downhill, and likewise Bo.  Then Helen's
ears suddenly filled with a roar of rapid water.  Ranger
trotted faster.  Soon Helen came to the edge of a great
valley, black and gray, so full of obscurity that she could
not see across or down into it.  But she knew there was a
rushing river at the bottom.  The sound was deep, continuous,
a heavy, murmuring roar, singularly musical.  The trail was
steep.  Helen had not lost all feeling, as she had believed
and hoped.  Her poor, mistreated body still responded
excruciatingly to concussions, jars, wrenches, and all the
other horrible movements making up a horse-trot.

For long Helen did not look up.  When she did so there lay a
green, willow-bordered, treeless space at the bottom of the
valley, through which a brown-white stream rushed with
steady, ear-filling roar.

Dale and Roy drove the pack-animals across the stream, and
followed, going deep to the flanks of their horses.  Bo rode
into the foaming water as if she had been used to it all her
days.  A slip, a fall, would have meant that Bo must drown in
that mountain torrent.

Ranger trotted straight to the edge, and there, obedient to
Helen's clutch on the bridle, he halted.  The stream was
fifty feet wide, shallow on the near side, deep on the
opposite, with fast current and big waves.  Helen was simply
too frightened to follow.

"Let him come!" yelled Dale.  "Stick on now!  . . .  Ranger!"

The big black plunged in, making the water fly.  That stream
was nothing for him, though it seemed impassable to Helen.
She had not the strength left to lift her stirrups and the
water surged over them.  Ranger, in two more plunges,
surmounted the bank, and then, trotting across the green to
where the other horses stood steaming under some pines, he
gave a great heave and halted.

Roy reached up to help her off.

"Thirty miles, Miss Helen," he said, and the way he spoke
was a compliment.

He had to lift her off and help her to the tree where Bo
leaned.  Dale had ripped off a saddle and was spreading
saddle-blankets on the ground under the pine.

"Nell -- you swore -- you loved me!" was Bo's mournful
greeting.  The girl was pale, drawn, blue-lipped, and she
could not stand up.

"Bo, I never did -- or I'd never have brought you to this --
wretch that I am!" cried Helen.  "Oh, what a horrible ride!"

Rain was falling, the trees were dripping, the sky was
lowering.  All the ground was soaking wet, with pools and
puddles everywhere.  Helen could imagine nothing but a
heartless, dreary, cold prospect.  Just then home was vivid
and poignant in her thoughts.  Indeed, so utterly miserable
was she that the exquisite relief of sitting down, of a
cessation of movement, of a release from that infernal
perpetual-trotting horse, seemed only a mockery.  It could
not be true that the time had come for rest.

Evidently this place had been a camp site for hunters or
sheep-herders, for there were remains of a fire.  Dale lifted
the burnt end of a log and brought it down hard upon the
ground, splitting off pieces.  Several times he did this.  It
was amazing to see his strength, his facility, as he split
off handfuls of splinters.  He collected a bundle of them,
and, laying them down, he bent over them.  Roy wielded the ax
on another log, and each stroke split off a long strip.  Then
a tiny column of smoke drifted up over Dale's shoulder as he
leaned, bareheaded, sheltering the splinters with his hat.  A
blaze leaped up.  Roy came with an armful of strips all white
and dry, out of the inside of a log.  Crosswise these were
laid over the blaze, and it began to roar.  Then piece by
piece the men built up a frame upon which they added heavier
woods, branches and stumps and logs, erecting a pyramid
through which flames and smoke roared upward.  It had not
taken two minutes.  Already Helen felt the warmth on her icy
face.  She held up her bare, numb hands.

Both Dale and Roy were wet through to the skin, yet they did
not tarry beside the fire.  They relieved the horses.  A lasso
went up between two pines, and a tarpaulin over it, V-shaped
and pegged down at the four ends.  The packs containing the
baggage of the girls and the supplies and bedding were
placed under this shelter.

Helen thought this might have taken five minutes more.  In
this short space of time the fire had leaped and flamed
until it was huge and hot.  Rain was falling steadily all
around, but over and near that roaring blaze, ten feet high,
no water fell.  It evaporated.  The ground began to steam and
to dry.  Helen suffered at first while the heat was driving
out the cold.  But presently the pain ceased.

"Nell, I never knew before how good a fire could feel,"
declared Bo.

And therein lay more food for Helen's reflection.

In ten minutes Helen was dry and hot.  Darkness came down
upon the dreary, sodden forest, but that great camp-fire
made it a different world from the one Helen had
anticipated.  It blazed and roared, cracked like a pistol,
hissed and sputtered, shot sparks everywhere, and sent aloft
a dense, yellow, whirling column of smoke.  It began to have
a heart of gold.

Dale took a long pole and raked out a pile of red embers
upon which the coffee-pot and oven soon began to steam.

"Roy, I promised the girls turkey to-night," said the
hunter.

"Mebbe to-morrow, if the wind shifts.  This 's turkey
country."

"Roy, a potato will do me!" exclaimed Bo. "Never again will I ask
for cake and pie! I never appreciated good things to eat. And
I've been a little pig, always. I never -- never knew what it was
to be hungry --until now."

Dale glanced up quickly.

"Lass, it's worth learnin'," he said.

Helen's thought was too deep for words.  In such brief space
had she been transformed from misery to comfort!

The rain kept on falling, though it appeared to grow softer
as night settled down black.  The wind died away and the
forest was still, except for the steady roar of the stream.
A folded tarpaulin was laid between the pine and the fire,
well in the light and warmth, and upon it the men set
steaming pots and plates and cups, the fragrance from which
was strong and inviting.

"Fetch the saddle-blanket an' set with your backs to the
fire," said Roy.


Later, when the girls were tucked away snugly in their
blankets and sheltered from the rain, Helen remained awake
after Bo had fallen asleep.  The big blaze made the
improvised tent as bright as day.  She could see the smoke,
the trunk of the big pine towering aloft, and a blank space
of sky.  The stream hummed a song, seemingly musical at
times, and then discordant and dull, now low, now roaring,
and always rushing, gurgling, babbling, flowing, chafing in
its hurry.

Presently the hunter and his friend returned from hobbling
the horses, and beside the fire they conversed in low tones.

"Wal, thet trail we made to-day will be hid, I reckon," said
Roy, with satisfaction.

"What wasn't sheeped over would be washed out.  We've had
luck.  An' now I ain't worryin'," returned Dale.

"Worryin'?  Then it's the first I ever knowed you to do."

"Man, I never had a job like this," protested the hunter.

"Wal, thet's so."

"Now, Roy, when old Al Auchincloss finds out about this
deal, as he's bound to when you or the boys get back to
Pine, he's goin' to roar."

"Do you reckon folks will side with him against Beasley?"

"Some of them.  But Al, like as not, will tell folks to go
where it's hot.  He'll bunch his men an' strike for the
mountains to find his nieces."

"Wal, all you've got to do is to keep the girls hid till I
can guide him up to your camp.  Or, failin' thet, till you
can slip the girls down to Pine."

"No one but you an' your brothers ever seen my senaca.  But
it could be found easy enough."

"Anson might blunder on it.  But thet ain't likely."

"Why ain't it?"

"Because I'll stick to thet sheep-thief's tracks like a wolf
after a bleedin' deer.  An' if he ever gets near your camp
I'll ride in ahead of him."

"Good!" declared Dale.  "I was calculatin' you'd go down to
Pine, sooner or later."

"Not unless Anson goes.  I told John thet in case there was
no fight on the stage to make a bee-line back to Pine.  He
was to tell Al an' offer his services along with Joe an'
Hal."

"One way or another, then, there's bound to be blood spilled
over this."

"Shore!  An' high time.  I jest hope I get a look down my old
'forty-four' at thet Beasley."

"In that case I hope you hold straighter than times I've
seen you."

"Milt Dale, I'm a good shot," declared Roy, stoutly.

"You're no good on movin' targets."

"Wal, mebbe so.  But I'm not lookin' for a movin' target when
I meet up with Beasley.  I'm a hossman, not a hunter.  You're
used to shootin' flies off deer's horns, jest for practice."

"Roy, can we make my camp by to-morrow night?" queried Dale,
more seriously.

"We will, if each of us has to carry one of the girls.  But
they'll do it or die.  Dale, did you ever see a gamer girl
than thet kid Bo?"

"Me!  Where'd I ever see any girls?" ejaculated Dale.  "I
remember some when I was a boy, but I was only fourteen
then.  Never had much use for girls."

"I'd like to have a wife like that Bo," declared Roy,
fervidly.

There ensued a moment's silence.

"Roy, you're a Mormon an' you already got a wife," was
Dale's reply.

"Now, Milt, have you lived so long in the woods thet you
never heard of a Mormon with two wives?" returned Roy, and
then he laughed heartily.

"I never could stomach what I did hear pertainin' to more
than one wife for a man."

"Wal, my friend, you go an' get yourself ONE.  An' see then
if you wouldn't like to have TWO."

"I reckon one 'd be more than enough for Milt Dale."

"Milt, old man, let me tell you thet I always envied you
your freedom," said Roy, earnestly.  "But it ain't life."

"You mean life is love of a woman?"

"No.  Thet's only part.  I mean a son -- a boy thet's like you
-- thet you feel will go on with your life after you're
gone."

"I've thought of that -- thought it all out, watchin' the
birds an' animals mate in the woods. . . .  If I have no son
I'll never live hereafter."

"Wal," replied Roy, hesitatingly, "I don't go in so deep as
thet.  I mean a son goes on with your blood an' your work."

"Exactly. . .  An', Roy, I envy you what you ve got, because
it's out of all bounds for Milt Dale."

Those words, sad and deep, ended the conversation.  Again the
rumbling, rushing stream dominated the forest.  An owl hooted
dismally.  A horse trod thuddingly near by and from that
direction came a cutting tear of teeth on grass.


A voice pierced Helen's deep dreams and, awaking, she found
Bo shaking and calling her.

"Are you dead?" came the gay voice.

"Almost.  Oh, my back's broken," replied Helen.  The desire to
move seemed clamped in a vise, and even if that came she
believed the effort would be impossible.

"Roy called us," said Bo.  "He said hurry.  I thought I'd die
just sitting up, and I'd give you a million dollars to lace
my boots.  Wait, sister, till you try to pull on one of those
stiff boots!"

With heroic and violent spirit Helen sat up to find that in
the act her aches and pains appeared beyond number.  Reaching
for her boots, she found them cold and stiff.  Helen unlaced
one and, opening it wide, essayed to get her sore foot down
into it.  But her foot appeared swollen and the boot appeared
shrunken.  She could not get it half on, though she expended
what little strength seemed left in her aching arms.  She
groaned.

Bo laughed wickedly.  Her hair was tousled, her eyes dancing,
her cheeks red.

"Be game!" she said.  "Stand up like a real Western girl and
PULL your boot on."

Whether Bo's scorn or advice made the task easier did not
occur to Helen, but the fact was that she got into her
boots.  Walking and moving a little appeared to loosen the
stiff joints and ease that tired feeling.  The water of the
stream where the girls washed was colder than any ice Helen
had ever felt.  It almost paralyzed her hands.  Bo mumbled,
and blew like a porpoise.  They had to run to the fire before
being able to comb their hair.  The air was wonderfully keen.
The dawn was clear, bright, with a red glow in the east
where the sun was about to rise.

"All ready, girls," called Roy.  "Reckon you can help
yourselves.  Milt ain't comin' in very fast with the hosses.
I'll rustle off to help him.  We've got a hard day before us.
Yesterday wasn't nowhere to what to-day 'll be."

"But the sun's going to shine?" implored Bo.

"Wal, you bet," rejoined Roy, as he strode off.

Helen and Bo ate breakfast and had the camp to themselves
for perhaps half an hour; then the horses came thudding
down, with Dale and Roy riding bareback.

By the time all was in readiness to start the sun was up,
melting the frost and ice, so that a dazzling, bright mist,
full of rainbows, shone under the trees.

Dale looked Ranger over, and tried the cinches of Bo's
horse.

"What's your choice -- a long ride behind the packs with me
-- or a short cut over the hills with Roy?" he asked.

"I choose the lesser of two rides," replied Helen, smiling.

"Reckon that 'll be easier, but you'll know you've had a
ride," said Dale, significantly.

"What was that we had yesterday?" asked Bo, archly.

"Only thirty miles, but cold an' wet.  To-day will be fine
for ridin'."

"Milt, I'll take a blanket an' some grub in case you don't
meet us to-night," said Roy.  "An' I reckon we'll split up
here where I'll have to strike out on thet short cut."

Bo mounted without a helping hand, but Helen's limbs were so
stiff that she could not get astride the high Ranger without
assistance.  The hunter headed up the slope of the canyon,
which on that side was not steep.  It was brown pine forest,
with here and there a clump of dark, silver-pointed
evergreens that Roy called spruce.  By the time this slope
was surmounted Helen's aches were not so bad.  The saddle
appeared to fit her better, and the gait of the horse was
not so unfamiliar.  She reflected, however, that she always
had done pretty well uphill.  Here it was beautiful
forest-land, uneven and wilder.  They rode for a time along
the rim, with the white rushing stream in plain sight far
below, with its melodious roar ever thrumming in the ear.

Dale reined in and peered down at the pine-mat.

"Fresh deer sign all along here," he said, pointing.

"Wal, I seen thet long ago," rejoined Roy.

Helen's scrutiny was rewarded by descrying several tiny
depressions in the pine-needles, dark in color and sharply
defined.

"We may never get a better chance," said Dale.  "Those deer
are workin' up our way.  Get your rifle out."

Travel was resumed then, with Roy a little in advance of the
pack-train.  Presently he dismounted, threw his bridle, and
cautiously peered ahead.  Then, turning, he waved his
sombrero.  The pack-animals halted in a bunch.  Dale beckoned
for the girls to follow and rode up to Roy's horse.  This
point, Helen saw, was at the top of an intersecting canuon.
Dale dismounted, without drawing his rifle from its
saddle-sheath, and approached Roy.

"Buck an' two does," he said, low-voiced.  "An' they've
winded us, but don't see us yet. . . .  Girls, ride up
closer."

Following the directions indicated by Dale's long arm, Helen
looked down the slope.  It was open, with tall pines here and
there, and clumps of silver spruce, and aspens shining like
gold in the morning sunlight.  Presently Bo exclaimed: "Oh,
look!  I see!  I see!" Then Helen's roving glance passed
something different from green and gold and brown.  Shifting
back to it she saw a magnificent stag, with noble spreading
antlers, standing like a statue, his head up in alert and
wild posture.  His color was gray.  Beside him grazed two deer
of slighter and more graceful build, without horns.

"It's downhill," whispered Dale.  "An' you're goin' to
overshoot."

Then Helen saw that Roy had his rifle leveled.

"Oh, don't!" she cried.

Dale's remark evidently nettled Roy.  He lowered the rifle.

"Milt, it's me lookin' over this gun.  How can you stand
there an' tell me I'm goin' to shoot high?  I had a dead bead
on him."

"Roy, you didn't allow for downhill . . .  Hurry.  He sees us
now."

Roy leveled the rifle and, taking aim as before, he fired.
The buck stood perfectly motionless, as if he had indeed
been stone.  The does, however, jumped with a start, and
gazed in fright in every direction.

"Told you!  I seen where your bullet hit thet pine -- half a
foot over his shoulder.  Try again an' aim at his legs."

Roy now took a quicker aim and pulled trigger.  A puff of
dust right at the feet of the buck showed where Roy's lead
had struck this time.  With a single bound, wonderful to see,
the big deer was out of sight behind trees and brush.  The
does leaped after him.

"Doggone the luck!" ejaculated Roy, red in the face, as he
worked the lever of his rifle.  "Never could shoot downhill,
nohow!"

His rueful apology to the girls for missing brought a merry
laugh from Bo.

"Not for worlds would I have had you kill that beautiful
deer!" she exclaimed.

"We won't have venison steak off him, that's certain,"
remarked Dale, dryly.  "An' maybe none off any deer, if Roy
does the shootin'."

They resumed travel, sheering off to the right and keeping
to the edge of the intersecting canuon.  At length they rode
down to the bottom, where a tiny brook babbled through
willows, and they followed this for a mile or so down to
where it flowed into the larger stream.  A dim trail
overgrown with grass showed at this point.

"Here's where we part," said Dale.  "You'll beat me into my
camp, but I'll get there sometime after dark."

"Hey, Milt, I forgot about thet darned pet cougar of yours
an' the rest of your menagerie.  Reckon they won't scare the
girls?  Especially old Tom?"

"You won't see Tom till I get home," replied Dale.

"Ain't he corralled or tied up?"

"No.  He has the run of the place."

"Wal, good-by, then, an' rustle along."

Dale nodded to the girls, and, turning his horse, he drove
the pack-train before him up the open space between the
stream and the wooded slope.

Roy stepped off his horse with that single action which
appeared such a feat to Helen.

"Guess I'd better cinch up," he said, as he threw a stirrup
up over the pommel of his saddle.  "You girls are goin' to
see wild country."

"Who's old Tom?" queried Bo, curiously.

"Why, he's Milt's pet cougar."

"Cougar?  That's a panther -- a mountain-lion, didn't he
say?"

"Shore is.  Tom is a beauty.  An' if he takes a likin' to you
he'll love you, play with you, maul you half to death."

Bo was all eyes.

"Dale has other pets, too?" she questioned, eagerly.

"I never was up to his camp but what it was overrun with
birds an' squirrels an' vermin of all kinds, as tame as tame
as cows.  Too darn tame, Milt says.  But I can't figger thet.
You girls will never want to leave thet senaca of his."

"What's a senaca?" asked Helen, as she shifted her foot to
let him tighten the cinches on her saddle.

"Thet's Mexican for park, I guess," he replied.  "These
mountains are full of parks; an', say, I don't ever want to
see no prettier place till I get to heaven. . . .  There,
Ranger, old boy, thet's tight."

He slapped the horse affectionately, and, turning to his
own, he stepped and swung his long length up.

"It ain't deep crossin' here.  Come on," he called, and
spurred his bay.

The stream here was wide and it looked deep, but turned out
to be deceptive.

"Wal, girls, here beginneth the second lesson," he drawled,
cheerily.  "Ride one behind the other -- stick close to me --
do what I do -- an' holler when you want to rest or if
somethin' goes bad."

With that he spurred into the thicket.  Bo went next and
Helen followed.  The willows dragged at her so hard that she
was unable to watch Roy, and the result was that a
low-sweeping branch of a tree knocked her hard on the head.
It hurt and startled her, and roused her mettle.  Roy was
keeping to the easy trot that covered ground so well, and he
led up a slope to the open pine forest.  Here the ride for
several miles was straight, level, and open.  Helen liked the
forest to-day.  It was brown and green, with patches of gold
where the sun struck.  She saw her first bird -- big blue
grouse that whirred up from under her horse, and little
checkered gray quail that appeared awkward on the wing.
Several times Roy pointed out deer flashing gray across some
forest aisle, and often when he pointed Helen was not quick
enough to see.

Helen realized that this ride would make up for the hideous
one of yesterday.  So far she had been only barely conscious
of sore places and aching bones.  These she would bear with.
She loved the wild and the beautiful, both of which
increased manifestly with every mile.  The sun was warm, the
air fragrant and cool, the sky blue as azure and so deep
that she imagined that she could look far up into it.

Suddenly Roy reined in so sharply that he pulled the bay up
short.

"Look!" he called, sharply.

Bo screamed.

"Not thet way!  Here!  Aw, he's gone!"

"Nell!  It was a bear!  I saw it!  Oh!  not like circus bears at
all!" cried Bo.

Helen had missed her opportunity.

"Reckon he was a grizzly, an' I'm jest as well pleased thet
he loped off," said Roy.  Altering his course somewhat, he
led to an old rotten log that the bear had been digging in.
"After grubs.  There, see his track.  He was a whopper shore
enough."

They rode on, out to a high point that overlooked canuon and
range, gorge and ridge, green and black as far as Helen
could see.  The ranges were bold and long, climbing to the
central uplift, where a number of fringed peaks raised their
heads to the vast bare dome of Old Baldy.  Far as vision
could see, to the right lay one rolling forest of pine,
beautiful and serene.  Somewhere down beyond must have lain
the desert, but it was not in sight.

"I see turkeys 'way down there," said Roy, backing away.
"We'll go down and around an' mebbe I'll get a shot."

Descent beyond a rocky point was made through thick brush.
This slope consisted of wide benches covered with copses and
scattered pines and many oaks.  Helen was delighted to see
the familiar trees, although these were different from
Missouri oaks.  Rugged and gnarled, but not tall, these trees
spread wide branches, the leaves of which were yellowing.
Roy led into a grassy glade, and, leaping off his horse,
rifle in hand, he prepared to shoot at something.  Again Bo
cried out, but this time it was in delight.  Then Helen saw
an immense flock of turkeys, apparently like the turkeys she
knew at home, but these had bronze and checks of white, and
they looked wild.  There must have been a hundred in the
flock, most of them hens.  A few gobblers on the far side
began the flight, running swiftly off.  Helen plainly heard
the thud of their feet.  Roy shot once -- twice -- three
times.  Then rose a great commotion and thumping, and a loud
roar of many wings.  Dust and leaves whirling in the air were
left where the turkeys had been.

"Wal, I got two," said Roy, and he strode forward to pick up
his game.  Returning, he tied two shiny, plump gobblers back
of his saddle and remounted his horse.  "We'll have turkey
to-night, if Milt gets to camp in time."

The ride was resumed.  Helen never would have tired riding
through those oak groves, brown and sear and yellow, with
leaves and acorns falling.

"Bears have been workin' in here already," said Roy.  "I see
tracks all over.  They eat acorns in the fall.  An' mebbe
we'll run into one yet."

The farther down he led the wilder and thicker grew the
trees, so that dodging branches was no light task.  Ranger
did not seem to care how close he passed a tree or under a
limb, so that he missed them himself; but Helen thereby got
some additional bruises.  Particularly hard was it, when
passing a tree, to get her knee out of the way in time.

Roy halted next at what appeared a large green pond full of
vegetation and in places covered with a thick scum.  But it
had a current and an outlet, proving it to be a huge,
spring.  Roy pointed down at a muddy place.

"Bear-wallow.  He heard us comin'.  Look at thet little track.
Cub track.  An' look at these scratches on this tree, higher
'n my head.  An old she-bear stood up, an' scratched them."

Roy sat his saddle and reached up to touch fresh marks on
the tree.

"Woods's full of big bears," he said, grinning.  "An' I take
it particular kind of this old she rustlin' off with her
cub.  She-bears with cubs are dangerous."

The next place to stir Helen to enthusiasm was the glen at
the bottom of this canuon.  Beech-trees, maples, aspens,
overtopped by lofty pines, made dense shade over a brook
where trout splashed on the brown, swirling current, and
leaves drifted down, and stray flecks of golden sunlight
lightened the gloom.  Here was hard riding to and fro across
the brook, between huge mossy boulders, and between aspens
so close together that Helen could scarce squeeze her knees
through.

Once more Roy climbed out of that canuon, over a ridge into
another, down long wooded slopes and through scrub-oak
thickets, on and on till the sun stood straight overhead.
Then he halted for a short rest, unsaddled the horses to let
them roll, and gave the girls some cold lunch that he had
packed.  He strolled off with his gun, and, upon returning,
resaddled and gave the word to start.

That was the last of rest and easy traveling for the girls.
The forest that he struck into seemed ribbed like a
washboard with deep ravines so steep of slope as to make
precarious travel.  Mostly he kept to the bottom where dry
washes afforded a kind of trail.  But it was necessary to
cross these ravines when they were too long to be headed,
and this crossing was work.

The locust thickets characteristic of these slopes were
thorny and close knit.  They tore and scratched and stung
both horses and riders.  Ranger appeared to be the most
intelligent of the horses and suffered less.  Bo's white
mustang dragged her through more than one brambly place.  On
the other hand, some of these steep slopes, were
comparatively free of underbrush.  Great firs and pines
loomed up on all sides.  The earth was soft and the hoofs
sank deep.  Toward the bottom of a descent Ranger would brace
his front feet and then slide down on his haunches.  This
mode facilitated travel, but it frightened Helen.  The climb
out then on the other side had to be done on foot.

After half a dozen slopes surmounted in this way Helen's
strength was spent and her breath was gone.  She felt
light-headed.  She could not get enough air.  Her feet felt
like lead, and her riding-coat was a burden.  A hundred
times, hot and wet and throbbing, she was compelled to stop.
Always she had been a splendid walker and climber.  And here,
to break up the long ride, she was glad to be on her feet.
But she could only drag one foot up after the other.  Then,
when her nose began to bleed, she realized that it was the
elevation which was causing all the trouble.  Her heart,
however, did not hurt her, though she was conscious of an
oppression on her breast.

At last Roy led into a ravine so deep and wide and full of
forest verdure that it appeared impossible to cross.
Nevertheless, he started down, dismounting after a little
way.  Helen found that leading Ranger down was worse than
riding him.  He came fast and he would step right in her
tracks.  She was not quick enough to get away from him.
Twice he stepped on her foot, and again his broad chest hit
her shoulder and threw her flat.  When he began to slide,
near the bottom, Helen had to run for her life.

"Oh, Nell!  Isn't -- this -- great?" panted Bo, from
somewhere ahead.

"Bo -- your -- mind's -- gone," panted Helen, in reply.

Roy tried several places to climb out, and failed in each.
Leading down the ravine for a hundred yards or more, he
essayed another attempt.  Here there had been a slide, and in
part the earth was bare.  When he had worked up this, he
halted above, and called:

"Bad place!  Keep on the up side of the hosses!"

This appeared easier said than done.  Helen could not watch
Bo, because Ranger would not wait.  He pulled at the bridle
and snorted.

"Faster you come the better," called Roy.

Helen could not see the sense of that, but she tried.  Roy
and Bo had dug a deep trail zigzag up that treacherous
slide.  Helen made the mistake of starting to follow in their
tracks, and when she realized this Ranger was climbing fast,
almost dragging her, and it was too late to get above.  Helen
began to labor.  She slid down right in front of Ranger.  The
intelligent animal, with a snort, plunged out of the trail
to keep from stepping on her.  Then he was above her.

"Lookout down there," yelled Roy, in warning.  "Get on the up
side!"

But that did not appear possible.  The earth began to slide
under Ranger, and that impeded Helen's progress.  He got in
advance of her, straining on the bridle.

"Let go!" yelled Roy.

Helen dropped the bridle just as a heavy slide began to move
with Ranger.  He snorted fiercely, and, rearing high, in a
mighty plunge he gained solid ground.  Helen was buried to
her knees, but, extricating herself, she crawled to a safe
point and rested before climbing farther.

"Bad cave-in, thet," was Roy's comment, when at last she
joined him and Bo at the top.

Roy appeared at a loss as to which way to go.  He rode to
high ground and looked in all directions.  To Helen, one way
appeared as wild and rough as another, and all was yellow,
green, and black under the westering sun.  Roy rode a short
distance in one direction, then changed for another.

Presently he stopped.

"Wal, I'm shore turned round," he said.

"You're not lost?" cried Bo.

"Reckon I've been thet for a couple of hours," he replied,
cheerfully.  "Never did ride across here I had the direction,
but I'm blamed now if I can tell which way thet was."

Helen gazed at him in consternation.

"Lost!" she echoed.



CHAPTER IX

A silence ensued, fraught with poignant fear for Helen, as
she gazed into Bo's whitening face.  She read her sister's
mind.  Bo was remembering tales of lost people who never were
found.

"Me an' Milt get lost every day," said Roy.  "You don't
suppose any man can know all this big country.  It's nothin'
for us to be lost."

"Oh!  . . .  I was lost when I was little," said Bo.

"Wal, I reckon it'd been better not to tell you so offhand
like," replied Roy, contritely.  "Don't feel bad, now.  All I
need is a peek at Old Baldy.  Then I'll have my bearin'.  Come
on."

Helen's confidence returned as Roy led off at a fast trot.
He rode toward the westering sun, keeping to the ridge they
had ascended, until once more he came out upon a promontory.
Old Baldy loomed there, blacker and higher and closer.  The
dark forest showed round, yellow, bare spots like parks.

"Not so far off the track," said Roy, as he wheeled his
horse.  "We'll make camp in Milt's senaca to-night."

He led down off the ridge into a valley and then up to
higher altitude, where the character of the forest changed.
The trees were no longer pines, but firs and spruce, growing
thin and exceedingly tall, with few branches below the
topmost foliage.  So dense was this forest that twilight
seemed to have come.

Travel was arduous.  Everywhere were windfalls that had to be
avoided, and not a rod was there without a fallen tree.  The
horses, laboring slowly, sometimes sank knee-deep into the
brown duff.  Gray moss festooned the tree-trunks and an
amber-green moss grew thick on the rotting logs.

Helen loved this forest primeval.  It was so still, so dark,
so gloomy, so full of shadows and shade, and a dank smell of
rotting wood, and sweet fragrance of spruce.  The great
windfalls, where trees were jammed together in dozens,
showed the savagery of the storms.  Wherever a single monarch
lay uprooted there had sprung up a number of ambitious sons,
jealous of one another, fighting for place.  Even the trees
fought one another!  The forest was a place of mystery, but
its strife could be read by any eye.  The lightnings had
split firs clear to the roots, and others it had circled
with ripping tear from top to trunk.

Time came, however, when the exceeding wildness of the
forest, in density and fallen timber, made it imperative for
Helen to put all her attention on the ground and trees in
her immediate vicinity.  So the pleasure of gazing ahead at
the beautiful wilderness was denied her.  Thereafter travel
became toil and the hours endless.

Roy led on, and Ranger followed, while the shadows darkened
under the trees.  She was reeling in her saddle, half blind
and sick, when Roy called out cheerily that they were almost
there.

Whatever his idea was, to Helen it seemed many miles that
she followed him farther, out of the heavy-timbered forest
down upon slopes of low spruce, like evergreen, which
descended sharply to another level, where dark, shallow
streams flowed gently and the solemn stillness held a low
murmur of falling water, and at last the wood ended upon a
wonderful park full of a thick, rich, golden light of
fast-fading sunset.

"Smell the smoke," said Roy.  "By Solomon!  if Milt ain't here
ahead of me!"

He rode on.  Helen's weary gaze took in the round senaca, the
circling black slopes, leading up to craggy rims all gold
and red in the last flare of the sun; then all the spirit
left in her flashed up in thrilling wonder at this
exquisite, wild, and colorful spot.

Horses were grazing out in the long grass and there were
deer grazing with them.  Roy led round a corner of the
fringed, bordering woodland, and there, under lofty trees,
shone a camp-fire.  Huge gray rocks loomed beyond, and then
cliffs rose step by step to a notch in the mountain wall,
over which poured a thin, lacy waterfall.  As Helen gazed in
rapture the sunset gold faded to white and all the western
slope of the amphitheater darkened.

Dale's tall form appeared.

"Reckon you're late," he said, as with a comprehensive flash
of eye he took in the three.

"Milt, I got lost," replied Roy.

"I feared as much. . . .  You girls look like you'd done
better to ride with me," went on Dale, as he offered a hand
to help Bo off.  She took it, tried to get her foot out of
the stirrups, and then she slid from the saddle into Dale's
arms.  He placed her on her feet and, supporting her, said,
solicitously: "A hundred-mile ride in three days for a
tenderfoot is somethin' your uncle Al won't believe. . . .
Come, walk if it kills you!"

Whereupon he led Bo, very much as if he were teaching a
child to walk.  The fact that the voluble Bo had nothing to
say was significant to Helen, who was following, with the
assistance of Roy.

One of the huge rocks resembled a sea-shell in that it
contained a hollow over which the wide-spreading shelf
flared out.  It reached toward branches of great pines.  A
spring burst from a crack in the solid rock.  The campfire
blazed under a pine, and the blue column of smoke rose just
in front of the shelving rock.  Packs were lying on the grass
and some of them were open.  There were no signs here of a
permanent habitation of the hunter.  But farther on were
other huge rocks, leaning, cracked, and forming caverns,
some of which perhaps he utilized.

"My camp is just back," said Dale, as if he had read Helen's
mind.  "To-morrow we'll fix up comfortable-like round here
for you girls."

Helen and Bo were made as easy as blankets and saddles could
make them, and the men went about their tasks.

"Nell -- isn't this -- a dream?" murmured Bo.

"No, child.  It's real -- terribly real," replied Helen.  "Now
that we're here -- with that awful ride over -- we can
think."

"It's so pretty -- here," yawned Bo.  "I'd just as lief Uncle
Al didn't find us very soon."

"Bo!  He's a sick man.  Think what the worry will be to him."

"I'll bet if he knows Dale he won't be so worried."

"Dale told us Uncle Al disliked him."

"Pooh!  What difference does that make?  . . .  Oh, I don't
know which I am -- hungrier or tireder!"

"I couldn't eat to-night," said Helen, wearily.

When she stretched out she had a vague, delicious sensation
that that was the end of Helen Rayner, and she was glad.
Above her, through the lacy, fernlike pine-needles, she saw
blue sky and a pale star just showing.  Twilight was stealing
down swiftly.  The silence was beautiful, seemingly
undisturbed by the soft, silky, dreamy fall of water.  Helen
closed her eyes, ready for sleep, with the physical
commotion within her body gradually yielding.  In some places
her bones felt as if they had come out through her flesh; in
others throbbed deep-seated aches; her muscles appeared
slowly to subside, to relax, with the quivering twinges
ceasing one by one; through muscle and bone, through all her
body, pulsed a burning current.

Bo's head dropped on Helen's shoulder.  Sense became vague to
Helen.  She lost the low murmur of the waterfall, and then
the sound or feeling of some one at the campfire.  And her
last conscious thought was that she tried to open her eyes
and could not.

When she awoke all was bright.  The sun shone almost directly
overhead.  Helen was astounded.  Bo lay wrapped in deep sleep,
her face flushed, with beads of perspiration on her brow and
the chestnut curls damp.  Helen threw down the blankets, and
then, gathering courage -- for she felt as if her back was
broken -- she endeavored to sit up.  In vain!  Her spirit was
willing, but her muscles refused to act.  It must take a
violent spasmodic effort.  She tried it with shut eyes, and,
succeeding, sat there trembling.  The commotion she had made
in the blankets awoke Bo, and she blinked her surprised blue
eyes in the sunlight.

"Hello -- Nell!  do I have to -- get up?" she asked,
sleepily.

"Can you?" queried Helen.

"Can I what?" Bo was now thoroughly awake and lay there
staring at her sister.

"Why -- get up."

"I'd like to know why not," retorted Bo, as she made the
effort.  She got one arm and shoulder up, only to flop back
like a crippled thing.  And she uttered the most piteous
little moan.  "I'm dead!  I know -- I am!"

"Well, if you're going to be a Western girl you'd better
have spunk enough to move."

"A-huh!" ejaculated Bo.  Then she rolled over, not without
groans, and, once upon her face, she raised herself on her
hands and turned to a sitting posture.  "Where's everybody? . . .
Oh, Nell, it's perfectly lovely here.  Paradise!"

Helen looked around.  A fire was smoldering.  No one was in
sight.  Wonderful distant colors seemed to strike her glance
as she tried to fix it upon near-by objects.  A beautiful
little green tent or shack had been erected out of spruce
boughs.  It had a slanting roof that sloped all the way from
a ridge-pole to the ground; half of the opening in front was
closed, as were the sides.  The spruce boughs appeared all to
be laid in the same direction, giving it a smooth, compact
appearance, actually as if it had grown there.

"That lean-to wasn't there last night?" inquired Bo.

"I didn't see it.  Lean-to?  Where'd you get that name?"

"It's Western, my dear.  I'll bet they put it up for us. . . .
Sure, I see our bags inside.  Let's get up.  It must be
late."

The girls had considerable fun as well as pain in getting up
and keeping each other erect until their limbs would hold
them firmly.  They were delighted with the spruce lean-to.  It
faced the open and stood just under the wide-spreading shelf
of rock.  The tiny outlet from the spring flowed beside it
and spilled its clear water over a stone, to fall into a
little pool.  The floor of this woodland habitation consisted
of tips of spruce boughs to about a foot in depth, all laid
one way, smooth and springy, and so sweetly odorous that the
air seemed intoxicating.  Helen and Bo opened their baggage,
and what with use of the cold water, brush and comb, and
clean blouses, they made themselves feel as comfortable as
possible, considering the excruciating aches.  Then they went
out to the campfire.

Helen's eye was attracted by moving objects near at hand.
Then simultaneously with Bo's cry of delight Helen saw a
beautiful doe approaching under the trees.  Dale walked
beside it.

"You sure had a long sleep," was the hunter's greeting.  "I
reckon you both look better."

"Good morning.  Or is it afternoon?  We're just able to move
about," said Helen.

"I could ride," declared Bo, stoutly.  "Oh, Nell, look at the
deer!  It's coming to me."

The doe had hung back a little as Dale reached the
camp-fire.  It was a gray, slender creature, smooth as silk,
with great dark eyes.  It stood a moment, long ears erect,
and then with a graceful little trot came up to Bo and
reached a slim nose for her outstretched hand.  All about it,
except the beautiful soft eyes, seemed wild, and yet it was
as tame as a kitten.  Then, suddenly, as Bo fondled the long
ears, it gave a start and, breaking away, ran back out of
sight under the pines.

"What frightened it?" asked Bo.

Dale pointed up at the wall under the shelving roof of rock.
There, twenty feet from the ground, curled up on a ledge,
lay a huge tawny animal with a face like that of a cat.

"She's afraid of Tom," replied Dale.  "Recognizes him as a
hereditary foe, I guess.  I can't make friends of them."

"Oh!  So that's Tom -- the pet lion!" exclaimed Bo.  "Ugh!  No
wonder that deer ran off!"

"How long has he been up there?" queried Helen, gazing
fascinated at Dale's famous pet.

"I couldn't say.  Tom comes an' goes," replied Dale.  "But I
sent him up there last night."

"And he was there -- perfectly free -- right over us --
while we slept!" burst out Bo.

"Yes.  An' I reckon you slept the safer for that."

"Of all things!  Nell, isn't he a monster?  But he doesn't
look like a lion -- an African lion.  He's a panther.  I saw
his like at the circus once."

"He's a cougar," said Dale.  "The panther is long and slim.
Tom is not only long, but thick an' round.  I've had him four
years.  An' he was a kitten no bigger 'n my fist when I got
him."

"Is he perfectly tame -- safe?" asked Helen, anxiously.

"I've never told anybody that Tom was safe, but he is,"
replied Dale.  "You can absolutely believe it.  A wild cougar
wouldn't attack a man unless cornered or starved.  An' Tom is
like a big kitten."

The beast raised his great catlike face, with its sleepy,
half-shut eyes, and looked down upon them.

"Shall I call him down?" inquired Dale.

For once Bo did not find her voice.

"Let us -- get a little more used to him -- at a distance,"
replied Helen, with a little laugh.

"If he comes to you, just rub his head an' you'll see how
tame he is," said Dale.  "Reckon you're both hungry?"

"Not so very," returned Helen, aware of his penetrating gray
gaze upon her.

"Well, I am," vouchsafed Bo.

"Soon as the turkey's done we'll eat.  My camp is round
between the rocks.  I'll call you."

Not until his broad back was turned did Helen notice that
the hunter looked different.  Then she saw he wore a lighter,
cleaner suit of buckskin, with no coat, and instead of the
high-heeled horseman's boots he wore moccasins and leggings.
The change made him appear more lithe.

"Nell, I don't know what you think, but _I_ call him
handsome," declared Bo.

Helen had no idea what she thought.

"Let's try to walk some," she suggested.

So they essayed that painful task and got as far as a pine
log some few rods from their camp.  This point was close to
the edge of the park, from which there was an unobstructed
view.

"My!  What a place!" exclaimed Bo, with eyes wide and round.

"Oh, beautiful!" breathed Helen.

An unexpected blaze of color drew her gaze first.  Out of the
black spruce slopes shone patches of aspens, gloriously red
and gold, and low down along the edge of timber troops of
aspens ran out into the park, not yet so blazing as those
above, but purple and yellow and white in the sunshine.
Masses of silver spruce, like trees in moonlight, bordered
the park, sending out here and there an isolated tree, sharp
as a spear, with under-branches close to the ground.  Long
golden-green grass, resembling half-ripe wheat, covered the
entire floor of the park, gently waving to the wind.  Above
sheered the black, gold-patched slopes, steep and
unscalable, rising to buttresses of dark, iron-hued rock.
And to the east circled the rows of cliff-bench, gray and
old and fringed, splitting at the top in the notch where the
lacy, slumberous waterfall, like white smoke, fell and
vanished, to reappear in wider sheet of lace, only to fall
and vanish again in the green depths.

It was a verdant valley, deep-set in the mountain walls,
wild and sad and lonesome.  The waterfall dominated the
spirit of the place, dreamy and sleepy and tranquil; it
murmured sweetly on one breath of wind, and lulled with
another, and sometimes died out altogether, only to come
again in soft, strange roar.

"Paradise Park!" whispered Bo to herself.

A call from Dale disturbed their raptures.  Turning, they
hobbled with eager but painful steps in the direction of a
larger camp-fire, situated to the right of the great rock
that sheltered their lean-to.  No hut or house showed there
and none was needed.  Hiding-places and homes for a hundred
hunters were there in the sections of caverned cliffs, split
off in bygone ages from the mountain wall above.  A few
stately pines stood out from the rocks, and a clump of
silver spruce ran down to a brown brook.  This camp was only
a step from the lean-to, round the corner of a huge rock,
yet it had been out of sight.  Here indeed was evidence of a
hunter's home -- pelts and skins and antlers, a neat pile of
split fire-wood, a long ledge of rock, well sheltered, and
loaded with bags like a huge pantry-shelf, packs and ropes
and saddles, tools and weapons, and a platform of dry brush
as shelter for a fire around which hung on poles a various
assortment of utensils for camp.

"Hyar -- you git!" shouted Dale, and he threw a stick at
something.  A bear cub scampered away in haste.  He was small
and woolly and brown, and he grunted as he ran.  Soon he
halted.

"That's Bud," said Dale, as the girls came up.  "Guess he
near starved in my absence.  An' now he wants everythin',
especially the sugar.  We don't have sugar often up here."

"Isn't he dear?  Oh, I love him!" cried Bo.  "Come back, Bud.
Come, Buddie."

The cub, however, kept his distance, watching Dale with
bright little eyes.

"Where's Mr.  Roy?" asked Helen.

"Roy's gone.  He was sorry not to say good-by.  But it's
important he gets down in the pines on Anson's trail.  He'll
hang to Anson, an' in case they get near Pine he'll ride in
to see where your uncle is."

"What do you expect?" questioned Helen, gravely.

"'Most anythin'," he replied.  "Al, I reckon, knows now.
Maybe he's rustlin' into the mountains by this time.  If he
meets up with Anson, well an' good, for Roy won't be far
off.  An' sure if he runs across Roy, why they'll soon be
here.  But if I were you I wouldn't count on seein' your
uncle very soon.  I'm sorry.  I've done my best.  It sure is a
bad deal."

"Don't think me ungracious," replied Helen, hastily.  How
plainly he had intimated that it must be privation and
annoyance for her to be compelled to accept his hospitality!
"You are good -- kind.  I owe you much.  I'll be eternally
grateful."

Dale straightened as he looked at her.  His glance was
intent, piercing.  He seemed to be receiving a strange or
unusual portent.  No need for him to say he had never before
been spoken to like that!

"You may have to stay here with me -- for weeks -- maybe
months -- if we've the bad luck to get snowed in," he said,
slowly, as if startled at this deduction.  "You're safe here.
No sheep-thief could ever find this camp.  I'll take risks to
get you safe into Al's hands.  But I'm goin' to be pretty
sure about what I'm doin'. . . .  So -- there's plenty to eat
an' it's a pretty place."

"Pretty!  Why, it's grand!" exclaimed Bo.  "I've called it
Paradise Park."

"Paradise Park," he repeated, weighing the words.  "You've
named it an' also the creek.  Paradise Creek!  I've been here
twelve years with no fit name for my home till you said
that."

"Oh, that pleases me!" returned Bo, with shining eyes.

"Eat now," said Dale.  "An' I reckon you'll like that
turkey."

There was a clean tarpaulin upon which were spread steaming,
fragrant pans -- roast turkey, hot biscuits and gravy,
mashed potatoes as white as if prepared at home, stewed
dried apples, and butter and coffee.  This bounteous repast
surprised and delighted the girls; when they had once tasted
the roast wild turkey, then Milt Dale had occasion to blush
at their encomiums.

"I hope -- Uncle Al -- doesn't come for a month," declared
Bo, as she tried to get her breath.  There was a brown spot
on her nose and one on each cheek, suspiciously close to her
mouth.

Dale laughed.  It was pleasant to hear him, for his laugh
seemed unused and deep, as if it came from tranquil depths.

"Won't you eat with us?" asked Helen.

"Reckon I will," he said,  "it'll save time, an' hot grub
tastes better."

Quite an interval of silence ensued, which presently was
broken by Dale.

"Here comes Tom."

Helen observed with a thrill that the cougar was
magnificent, seen erect on all-fours, approaching with slow,
sinuous grace.  His color was tawny, with spots of whitish
gray.  He had bow-legs, big and round and furry, and a huge
head with great tawny eyes.  No matter how tame he was said
to be, he looked wild.  Like a dog he walked right up, and it
so happened that he was directly behind Bo, within reach of
her when she turned.

"Oh, Lord!" cried Bo, and up went both of her hands, in one
of which was a huge piece of turkey.  Tom took it, not
viciously, but nevertheless with a snap that made Helen
jump.  As if by magic the turkey vanished.  And Tom took a
closer step toward Bo.  Her expression of fright changed to
consternation.

"He stole my turkey!"

"Tom, come here," ordered Dale, sharply.  The cougar glided
round rather sheepishly.  "Now lie down an' behave."

Tom crouched on all-fours, his head resting on his paws,
with his beautiful tawny eyes, light and piercing, fixed
upon the hunter.

"Don't grab," said Dale, holding out a piece of turkey.
Whereupon Tom took it less voraciously.

As it happened, the little bear cub saw this transaction,
and he plainly indicated his opinion of the preference shown
to Tom.

"Oh, the dear!" exclaimed Bo.  "He means it's not fair. . . .
Come, Bud -- come on."

But Bud would not approach the group until called by Dale.
Then he scrambled to them with every manifestation of
delight.  Bo almost forgot her own needs in feeding him and
getting acquainted with him.  Tom plainly showed his jealousy
of Bud, and Bud likewise showed his fear of the great cat.

Helen could not believe the evidence of her eyes -- that she
was in the woods calmly and hungrily partaking of sweet,
wild-flavored meat -- that a full-grown mountain lion lay on
one side of her and a baby brown bear sat on the other --
that a strange hunter, a man of the forest, there in his
lonely and isolated fastness, appealed to the romance in her
and interested her as no one else she had ever met.

When the wonderful meal was at last finished Bo enticed the
bear cub around to the camp of the girls, and there soon
became great comrades with him.  Helen, watching Bo play, was
inclined to envy her.  No matter where Bo was placed, she
always got something out of it.  She adapted herself.  She,
who could have a good time with almost any one or anything,
would find the hours sweet and fleeting in this beautiful
park of wild wonders.

But merely objective actions -- merely physical movements,
had never yet contented Helen.  She could run and climb and
ride and play with hearty and healthy abandon, but those
things would not suffice long for her, and her mind needed
food.  Helen was a thinker.  One reason she had desired to
make her home in the West was that by taking up a life of
the open, of action, she might think and dream and brood
less.  And here she was in the wild West, after the three
most strenuously active days of her career, and still the
same old giant revolved her mind and turned it upon herself
and upon all she saw.

"What can I do?" she asked Bo, almost helplessly.

"Why, rest, you silly!" retorted Bo.  "You walk like an old,
crippled woman with only one leg."

Helen hoped the comparison was undeserved, but the advice
was sound.  The blankets spread out on the grass looked
inviting and they felt comfortably warm in the sunshine.  The
breeze was slow, languorous, fragrant, and it brought the
low hum of the murmuring waterfall, like a melody of bees.
Helen made a pillow and lay down to rest.  The green
pine-needles, so thin and fine in their crisscross network,
showed clearly against the blue sky.  She looked in vain for
birds.  Then her gaze went wonderingly to the lofty fringed
rim of the great amphitheater, and as she studied it she
began to grasp its remoteness, how far away it was in the
rarefied atmosphere.  A black eagle, sweeping along, looked
of tiny size, and yet he was far under the heights above.
How pleasant she fancied it to be up there!  And drowsy fancy
lulled her to sleep.

Helen slept all afternoon, and upon awakening, toward
sunset, found Bo curled beside her.  Dale had thoughtfully
covered them with a blanket; also he had built a camp-fire.
The air was growing keen and cold.

Later, when they had put their coats on and made comfortable
seats beside the fire, Dale came over, apparently to visit
them.

"I reckon you can't sleep all the time," he said.  "An' bein'
city girls, you'll get lonesome."

"Lonesome!" echoed Helen.  The idea of her being lonesome
here had not occurred to her.

"I've thought that all out," went on Dale, as he sat down,
Indian fashion, before the blaze.  "It's natural you'd find
time drag up here, bein' used to lots of people an'
goin's-on, an' work, an' all girls like."

"I'd never be lonesome here," replied Helen, with her direct
force.

Dale did not betray surprise, but he showed that his mistake
was something to ponder over.

"Excuse me," he said, presently, as his gray eyes held hers.
"That's how I had it.  As I remember girls -- an' it doesn't
seem long since I left home -- most of them would die of
lonesomeness up here." Then he addressed himself to Bo.  "How
about you?  You see, I figured you'd be the one that liked
it, an' your sister the one who wouldn't."

"I won't get lonesome very soon," replied Bo.

"I'm glad.  It worried me some -- not ever havin' girls as
company before.  An' in a day or so, when you're rested, I'll
help you pass the time."

Bo's eyes were full of flashing interest, and Helen asked
him, "How?"

It was a sincere expression of her curiosity and not
doubtful or ironic challenge of an educated woman to a man
of the forest.  But as a challenge he took it.

"How!" he repeated, and a strange smile flitted across his
face.  "Why, by givin' you rides an' climbs to beautiful
places.  An' then, if you're interested,' to show you how
little so-called civilized people know of nature."

Helen realized then that whatever his calling, hunter or
wanderer or hermit, he was not uneducated, even if he
appeared illiterate.

"I'll be happy to learn from you," she said.

"Me, too!" chimed in Bo.  "You can't tell too much to any one
from Missouri."

He smiled, and that warmed Helen to him, for then he seemed
less removed from other people.  About this hunter there
began to be something of the very nature of which he spoke
-- a stillness, aloofness, an unbreakable tranquillity, a
cold, clear spirit like that in the mountain air, a physical
something not unlike the tamed wildness of his pets or the
strength of the pines.

"I'll bet I can tell you more 'n you'll ever remember," he
said.

"What 'll you bet?" retorted Bo.

"Well, more roast turkey against -- say somethin' nice when
you're safe an' home to your uncle Al's, runnin' his ranch."

"Agreed.  Nell, you hear?"

Helen nodded her head.

"All right.  We'll leave it to Nell," began Dale, half
seriously.  "Now I'll tell you, first, for the fun of passin'
time we'll ride an' race my horses out in the park.  An'
we'll fish in the brooks an' hunt in the woods.  There's an
old silvertip around that you can see me kill.  An' we'll
climb to the peaks an' see wonderful sights. . . .  So much
for that.  Now, if you really want to learn -- or if you only
want me to tell you -- well, that's no matter.  Only I'll win
the bet!  . . .  You'll see how this park lies in the crater
of a volcano an' was once full of water -- an' how the snow
blows in on one side in winter, a hundred feet deep, when
there's none on the other.  An' the trees -- how they grow
an' live an' fight one another an' depend on one another,
an' protect the forest from storm-winds.  An' how they hold
the water that is the fountains of the great rivers.  An' how
the creatures an' things that live in them or on them are
good for them, an' neither could live without the other.  An'
then I'll show you my pets tame an' untamed, an' tell you
how it's man that makes any creature wild -- how easy they
are to tame -- an' how they learn to love you.  An' there's
the life of the forest, the strife of it -- how the bear
lives, an' the cats, an' the wolves, an' the deer.  You'll
see how cruel nature is how savage an' wild the wolf or
cougar tears down the deer -- how a wolf loves fresh, hot
blood, an' how a cougar unrolls the skin of a deer back from
his neck.  An' you'll see that this cruelty of nature -- this
work of the wolf an' cougar -- is what makes the deer so
beautiful an' healthy an' swift an' sensitive.  Without his
deadly foes the deer would deteriorate an' die out.  An'
you'll see how this principle works out among all creatures
of the forest.  Strife!  It's the meanin' of all creation, an'
the salvation.  If you're quick to see, you'll learn that the
nature here in the wilds is the same as that of men -- only
men are no longer cannibals.  Trees fight to live -- birds
fight -- animals fight -- men fight.  They all live off one
another.  An' it's this fightin' that brings them all closer
an' closer to bein' perfect.  But nothin' will ever be
perfect."

"But how about religion?" interrupted Helen, earnestly.

"Nature has a religion, an' it's to live -- to grow -- to
reproduce, each of its kind."

"But that is not God or the immortality of the soul,"
declared Helen.

"Well, it's as close to God an' immortality as nature ever
gets."

"Oh, you would rob me of my religion!"

"No, I just talk as I see life," replied Dale, reflectively,
as he poked a stick into the red embers of the fire.  "Maybe
I have a religion.  I don't know.  But it's not the kind you
have -- not the Bible kind.  That kind doesn't keep the men
in Pine an' Snowdrop an' all over -- sheepmen an' ranchers
an' farmers an' travelers, such as I've known -- the
religion they profess doesn't keep them from lyin',
cheatin', stealin', an' killin'.  I reckon no man who lives
as I do -- which perhaps is my religion -- will lie or cheat
or steal or kill, unless it's to kill in self-defense or
like I'd do if Snake Anson would ride up here now.  My
religion, maybe, is love of life -- wild life as it was in
the beginnin' -- an' the wind that blows secrets from
everywhere, an' the water that sings all day an' night, an'
the stars that shine constant, an' the trees that speak
somehow, an' the rocks that aren't dead.  I'm never alone
here or on the trails.  There's somethin' unseen, but always
with me.  An' that's It!  Call it God if you like.  But what
stalls me is -- where was that Spirit when this earth was a
ball of fiery gas?  Where will that Spirit be when all life
is frozen out or burned out on this globe an' it hangs dead
in space like the moon?  That time will come.  There's no
waste in nature.  Not the littlest atom is destroyed.  It
changes, that's all, as you see this pine wood go up in
smoke an' feel somethin' that's heat come out of it.  Where
does that go?  It's not lost.  Nothin' is lost.  So, the
beautiful an' savin' thought is, maybe all rock an' wood,
water an' blood an' flesh, are resolved back into the
elements, to come to life somewhere again sometime."

"Oh, what you say is wonderful, but it's terrible!"
exclaimed Helen.  He had struck deep into her soul.

"Terrible?  I reckon," he replied, sadly.

Then ensued a little interval of silence.

"Milt Dale, I lose the bet," declared Bo, with earnestness
behind her frivolity.

"I'd forgotten that.  Reckon I talked a lot," he said,
apologetically.  "You see, I don't get much chance to talk,
except to myself or Tom.  Years ago, when I found the habit
of silence settlin' down on me, I took to thinkin' out loud
an' talkin' to anythin'."

"I could listen to you all night," returned Bo, dreamily.

"Do you read -- do you have books?" inquired Helen,
suddenly.

"Yes, I read tolerable well; a good deal better than I talk
or write," he replied.  "I went to school till I was fifteen.
Always hated study, but liked to read.  Years ago an old
friend of mine down here at Pine -- Widow Cass -- she gave
me a lot of old books.  An' I packed them up here.  Winter's
the time I read."

Conversation lagged after that, except for desultory
remarks, and presently Dale bade the girls good night and
left them.  Helen watched his tall form vanish in the gloom
under the pines, and after he had disappeared she still
stared.

"Nell!" called Bo, shrilly.  "I've called you three times.  I
want to go to bed."

"Oh!  I -- I was thinking," rejoined Helen, half embarrassed,
half wondering at herself.  "I didn't hear you."

"I should smile you didn't," retorted Bo.  "Wish you could
just have seen your eyes.  Nell, do you want me to tell you
something?

"Why -- yes," said Helen, rather feebly.  She did not at all,
when Bo talked like that.

"You're going to fall in love with that wild hunter,"
declared Bo in a voice that rang like a bell.

Helen was not only amazed, but enraged.  She caught her
breath preparatory to giving this incorrigible sister a
piece of her mind.  Bo went calmly on.

"I can feel it in my bones."

"Bo, you're a little fool -- a sentimental, romancing, gushy
little fool!" retorted Helen.  "All you seem to hold in your
head is some rot about love.  To hear you talk one would
think there's nothing else in the world but love."

Bo's eyes were bright, shrewd, affectionate, and laughing as
she bent their steady gaze upon Helen.

"Nell, that's just it.  There IS nothing else!"



CHAPTER X

The night of sleep was so short that it was difficult for
Helen to believe that hours had passed.  Bo appeared livelier
this morning, with less complaint of aches.

"Nell, you've got color!" exclaimed Bo.  "And your eyes are
bright.  Isn't the morning perfectly lovely?  . . .  Couldn't
you get drunk on that air?  I smell flowers.  And oh!  I'm
hungry!"

"Bo, our host will soon have need of his hunting abilities
if your appetite holds," said Helen, as she tried to keep
her hair out of her eyes while she laced her boots.

"Look!  there's a big dog -- a hound."

Helen looked as Bo directed, and saw a hound of unusually
large proportions, black and tan in color, with long,
drooping ears.  Curiously he trotted nearer to the door of
their hut and then stopped to gaze at them.  His head was
noble, his eyes shone dark and sad.  He seemed neither
friendly nor unfriendly.

"Hello, doggie!  Come right in -- we won't hurt you," called
Bo, but without enthusiasm.

This made Helen laugh.  "Bo, you're simply delicious," she
said.  "You're afraid of that dog."

"Sure.  Wonder if he's Dale's.  Of course he must be."

Presently the hound trotted away out of sight.  When the
girls presented themselves at the camp-fire they espied
their curious canine visitor lying down.  His ears were so
long that half of them lay on the ground.

"I sent Pedro over to wake you girls up," said Dale, after
greeting them.  "Did he scare you?"

"Pedro.  So that's his name.  No, he didn't exactly scare me.
He did Nell, though.  She's an awful tenderfoot," replied Bo.

"He's a splendid-looking dog," said Helen, ignoring her
sister's sally.  "I love dogs.  Will he make friends?"

"He's shy an' wild.  You see, when I leave camp he won't hang
around.  He an' Tom are jealous of each other.  I had a pack
of hounds an' lost all but Pedro on account of Tom.  I think
you can make friends with Pedro.  Try it."

Whereupon Helen made overtures to Pedro, and not wholly in
vain.  The dog was matured, of almost stern aloofness, and
manifestly not used to people.  His deep, wine-dark eyes
seemed to search Helen's soul.  They were honest and wise,
with a strange sadness.

"He looks intelligent," observed Helen, as she smoothed the
long, dark ears.

"That hound is nigh human," responded Dale.  "Come, an' while
you eat I'll tell you about Pedro."

Dale had gotten the hound as a pup from a Mexican
sheep-herder who claimed he was part California bloodhound.
He grew up, becoming attached to Dale.  In his younger days
he did not get along well with Dale's other pets and Dale
gave him to a rancher down in the valley.  Pedro was back in
Dale's camp next day.  From that day Dale began to care more
for the hound, but he did not want to keep him, for various
reasons, chief of which was the fact that Pedro was too fine
a dog to be left alone half the time to shift for himself.
That fall Dale had need to go to the farthest village,
Snowdrop, where he left Pedro with a friend.  Then Dale rode
to Show Down and Pine, and the camp of the Beemans' and with
them he trailed some wild horses for a hundred miles, over
into New Mexico.  The snow was flying when Dale got back to
his camp in the mountains.  And there was Pedro, gaunt and
worn, overjoyed to welcome him home.  Roy Beeman visited Dale
that October and told that Dale's friend in Snowdrop had not
been able to keep Pedro.  He broke a chain and scaled a
ten-foot fence to escape.  He trailed Dale to Show Down,
where one of Dale's friends, recognizing the hound, caught
him, and meant to keep him until Dale's return.  But Pedro
refused to eat.  It happened that a freighter was going out
to the Beeman camp, and Dale's friend boxed Pedro up and put
him on the wagon.  Pedro broke out of the box, returned to
Show Down, took up Dale's trail to Pine, and then on to the
Beeman camp.  That was as far as Roy could trace the
movements of the hound.  But he believed, and so did Dale,
that Pedro had trailed them out on the wild-horse hunt.  The
following spring Dale learned more from the herder of a
sheepman at whose camp he and the Beemans; had rested on the
way into New Mexico.  It appeared that after Dale had left
this camp Pedro had arrived, and another Mexican herder had
stolen the hound.  But Pedro got away.

"An' he was here when I arrived," concluded Dale, smiling.
"I never wanted to get rid of him after that.  He's turned
out to be the finest dog I ever knew.  He knows what I say.
He can almost talk.  An' I swear he can cry.  He does whenever
I start off without him."

"How perfectly wonderful!" exclaimed Bo.  "Aren't animals
great?  . . .  But I love horses best."

It seemed to Helen that Pedro understood they were talking
about him, for he looked ashamed, and swallowed hard, and
dropped his gaze.  She knew something of the truth about the
love of dogs for their owners.  This story of Dale's,
however, was stranger than any she had ever heard.

Tom, the cougar, put in an appearance then, and there was
scarcely love in the tawny eyes he bent upon Pedro.  But the
hound did not deign to notice him.  Tom sidled up to Bo, who
sat on the farther side of the tarpaulin table-cloth, and
manifestly wanted part of her breakfast.

"Gee!  I love the look of him," she said.  "But when he's
close he makes my flesh creep."

"Beasts are as queer as people," observed Dale.  "They take
likes an' dislikes.  I believe Tom has taken a shine to you
an' Pedro begins to be interested in your sister.  I can
tell."

"Where's Bud?" inquired Bo.

"He's asleep or around somewhere.  Now, soon as I get the
work done, what would you girls like to do?"

"Ride!" declared Bo, eagerly.

"Aren't you sore an' stiff?"

"I am that.  But I don't care.  Besides, when I used to go out
to my uncle's farm near Saint Joe I always found riding to
be a cure for aches."

"Sure is, if you can stand it.  An' what will your sister
like to do?" returned Dale, turning to Helen.

"Oh, I'll rest, and watch you folks -- and dream," replied
Helen.

"But after you've rested you must be active," said Dale,
seriously.  "You must do things.  It doesn't matter what, just
as long as you don't sit idle."

"Why?" queried Helen, in surprise.  "Why not be idle here in
this beautiful, wild place?  just to dream away the hours --
the days!  I could do it."

"But you mustn't.  It took me years to learn how bad that was
for me.  An' right now I would love nothin' more than to
forget my work, my horses an' pets -- everythin', an' just
lay around, seein' an' feelin'."

"Seeing and feeling?  Yes, that must be what I mean.  But why
-- what is it?  There are the beauty and color -- the wild,
shaggy slopes -- the gray cliffs -- the singing wind -- the
lulling water -- the clouds -- the sky.  And the silence,
loneliness, sweetness of it all."

"It's a driftin' back.  What I love to do an' yet fear most.
It's what makes a lone hunter of a man.  An' it can grow so
strong that it binds a man to the wilds."

"How strange!" murmured Helen.  "But that could never bind
ME.  Why, I must live and fulfil my mission, my work in the
civilized world."

It seemed to Helen that Dale almost imperceptibly shrank at
her earnest words.

"The ways of Nature are strange," he said.  "I look at it
different.  Nature's just as keen to wean you back to a
savage state as you are to be civilized.  An' if Nature won,
you would carry out her design all the better."

This hunter's talk shocked Helen and yet stimulated her
mind.

"Me -- a savage?  Oh no!" she exclaimed.  "But, if that were
possible, what would Nature's design be?"

"You spoke of your mission in life," he replied.  "A woman's
mission is to have children.  The female of any species has
only one mission -- to reproduce its kind.  An' Nature has
only one mission -- toward greater strength, virility,
efficiency -- absolute perfection, which is unattainable."

"What of mental and spiritual development of man and woman?"
asked Helen.

"Both are direct obstacles to the design of Nature.  Nature
is physical.  To create for limitless endurance for eternal
life.  That must be Nature's inscrutable design.  An' why she
must fail."

"But the soul!" whispered Helen.

"Ah!  When you speak of the soul an' I speak of life we mean
the same.  You an' I will have some talks while you're here.
I must brush up my thoughts."

"So must I, it seems," said Helen, with a slow smile.  She
had been rendered grave and thoughtful.  "But I guess I'll
risk dreaming under the pines."

Bo had been watching them with her keen blue eyes.

"Nell, it'd take a thousand years to make a savage of you,"
she said.  "But a week will do for me."

"Bo, you were one before you left Saint Joe," replied Helen.
"Don't you remember that school-teacher Barnes who said you
were a wildcat and an Indian mixed?  He spanked you with a
ruler."

"Never!  He missed me," retorted Bo, with red in her cheeks.
"Nell, I wish you'd not tell things about me when I was a
kid."

"That was only two years ago," expostulated Helen, in mild
surprise.

"Suppose it was.  I was a kid all right.  I'll bet you--" Bo
broke up abruptly, and, tossing her head, she gave Tom a pat
and then ran away around the corner of cliff wall.

Helen followed leisurely.

"Say, Nell," said Bo, when Helen arrived at their little
green ledge-pole hut, "do you know that hunter fellow will
upset some of your theories?"

"Maybe.  I'll admit he amazes me -- and affronts me, too, I'm
afraid," replied Helen.  "What surprises me is that in spite
of his evident lack of schooling he's not raw or crude.  He's
elemental."

"Sister dear, wake up.  The man's wonderful.  You can learn
more from him than you ever learned in your life.  So can I.
I always hated books, anyway."

When, a little later, Dale approached carrying some bridles,
the hound Pedro trotted at his heels.

"I reckon you'd better ride the horse you had," he said to
Bo.

"Whatever you say.  But I hope you let me ride them all, by
and by."

"Sure.  I've a mustang out there you'll like.  But he pitches
a little," he rejoined, and turned away toward the park.  The
hound looked after him and then at Helen.

"Come, Pedro.  Stay with me," called Helen.

Dale, hearing her, motioned the hound back.  Obediently Pedro
trotted to her, still shy and soberly watchful, as if not
sure of her intentions, but with something of friendliness
about him now.  Helen found a soft, restful seat in the sun
facing the park, and there composed herself for what she
felt would be slow, sweet, idle hours.  Pedro curled down
beside her.  The tall form of Dale stalked across the park,
out toward the straggling horses.  Again she saw a deer
grazing among them.  How erect and motionless it stood
watching Dale!  Presently it bounded away toward the edge of
the forest.  Some of the horses whistled and ran, kicking
heels high in the air.  The shrill whistles rang clear in the
stillness.

"Gee!  Look at them go!" exclaimed Bo, gleefully, coming up
to where Helen sat.  Bo threw herself down upon the fragrant
pine-needles and stretched herself languorously, like a lazy
kitten.  There was something feline in her lithe, graceful
outline.  She lay flat and looked up through the pines.

"Wouldn't it be great, now," she murmured, dreamily, half to
herself, "if that Las Vegas cowboy would happen somehow to
come, and then an earthquake would shut us up here in this
Paradise valley so we'd never get out?"

"Bo!  What would mother say to such talk as that?" gasped
Helen.

"But, Nell, wouldn't it be great?"

"It would be terrible."

"Oh, there never was any romance in you, Nell Rayner,"
replied Bo.  "That very thing has actually happened out here
in this wonderful country of wild places.  You need not tell
me!  Sure it's happened.  With the cliff-dwellers and the
Indians and then white people.  Every place I look makes me
feel that.  Nell, you'd have to see people in the moon
through a telescope before you'd believe that."

"I'm practical and sensible, thank goodness!"

"But, for the sake of argument," protested Bo, with flashing
eyes, "suppose it MIGHT happen.  Just to please me, suppose
we DID get shut up here with Dale and that cowboy we saw
from the train.  Shut in without any hope of ever climbing
out. . . .  What would you do?  Would you give up and pine
away and die?  Or would you fight for life and whatever joy
it might mean?"

"Self-preservation is the first instinct," replied Helen,
surprised at a strange, deep thrill in the depths of her.
"I'd fight for life, of course."

"Yes.  Well, really, when I think seriously I don't want
anything like that to happen.  But, just the same, if it DID
happen I would glory in it."

While they were talking Dale returned with the horses.

"Can you bridle an' saddle your own horse?" he asked.

"No.  I'm ashamed to say I can't," replied Bo.

"Time to learn then.  Come on.  Watch me first when I saddle
mine."

Bo was all eyes while Dale slipped off the bridle from his
horse and then with slow, plain action readjusted it.  Next
he smoothed the back of the horse, shook out the blanket,
and, folding it half over, he threw it in place, being
careful to explain to Bo just the right position.  He lifted
his saddle in a certain way and put that in place, and then
he tightened the cinches.

"Now you try," he said.

According to Helen's judgment Bo might have been a Western
girl all her days.  But Dale shook his head and made her do
it over.

"That was better.  Of course, the saddle is too heavy for you
to sling it up.  You can learn that with a light one.  Now put
the bridle on again.  Don't be afraid of your hands.  He won't
bite.  Slip the bit in sideways. . . .  There.  Now let's see
you mount."

When Bo got into the saddle Dale continued: "You went up
quick an' light, but the wrong way.  Watch me."

Bo had to mount several times before Dale was satisfied.
Then he told her to ride off a little distance.  When Bo had
gotten out of earshot Dale said to Helen: "She'll take to a
horse like a duck takes to water." Then, mounting, he rode
out after her.

Helen watched them trotting and galloping and running the
horses round the grassy park, and rather regretted she had
not gone with them.  Eventually Bo rode back, to dismount and
fling herself down, red-cheeked and radiant, with disheveled
hair, and curls damp on her temples.  How alive she seemed!
Helen's senses thrilled with the grace and charm and
vitality of this surprising sister, and she was aware of a
sheer physical joy in her presence.  Bo rested, but she did
not rest long.  She was soon off to play with Bud.  Then she
coaxed the tame doe to eat out of her hand.  She dragged
Helen off for wild flowers, curious and thoughtless by
turns.  And at length she fell asleep, quickly, in a way that
reminded Helen of the childhood now gone forever.

Dale called them to dinner about four o'clock, as the sun
was reddening the western rampart of the park.  Helen
wondered where the day had gone.  The hours had flown
swiftly, serenely, bringing her scarcely a thought of her
uncle or dread of her forced detention there or possible
discovery by those outlaws supposed to be hunting for her.
After she realized the passing of those hours she had an
intangible and indescribable feeling of what Dale had meant
about dreaming the hours away.  The nature of Paradise Park
was inimical to the kind of thought that had habitually been
hers. She found the new thought absorbing, yet when she
tried to name it she found that, after all, she had only
felt.  At the meal hour she was more than usually quiet.  She
saw that Dale noticed it and was trying to interest her or
distract her attention.  He succeeded, but she did not choose
to let him see that.  She strolled away alone to her seat
under the pine.  Bo passed her once, and cried,
tantalizingly:

"My, Nell, but you're growing romantic!"

Never before in Helen's life had the beauty of the evening
star seemed so exquisite or the twilight so moving and
shadowy or the darkness so charged with loneliness.  It was
their environment -- the accompaniment of wild wolf-mourn,
of the murmuring waterfall, of this strange man of the
forest and the unfamiliar elements among which he made his home.


Next morning, her energy having returned, Helen shared Bo's
lesson in bridling and saddling her horse, and in riding.
Bo, however, rode so fast and so hard that for Helen to
share her company was impossible.  And Dale, interested and
amused, yet anxious, spent most of his time with Bo.  It was
thus that Helen rode all over the park alone.  She was
astonished at its size, when from almost any point it looked
so small.  The atmosphere deceived her.  How clearly she could
see!  And she began to judge distance by the size of familiar
things.  A horse, looked at across the longest length of the
park, seemed very small indeed.  Here and there she rode upon
dark, swift, little brooks, exquisitely clear and
amber-colored and almost hidden from sight by the long
grass.  These all ran one way, and united to form a deeper
brook that apparently wound under the cliffs at the west
end, and plunged to an outlet in narrow clefts.  When Dale
and Bo came to her once she made inquiry, and she was
surprised to learn from Dale that this brook disappeared in
a hole in the rocks and had an outlet on the other side of
the mountain.  Sometime he would take them to the lake it
formed.

"Over the mountain?" asked Helen, again remembering that she
must regard herself as a fugitive.  "Will it be safe to leave
our hiding-place?  I forget so often why we are here."

"We would be better hidden over there than here," replied
Dale.  "The valley on that side is accessible only from that
ridge.  An' don't worry about bein' found.  I told you Roy
Beeman is watchin' Anson an' his gang.  Roy will keep between
them an' us."

Helen was reassured, yet there must always linger in the
background of her mind a sense of dread.  In spite of this,
she determined to make the most of her opportunity.  Bo was a
stimulus.  And so Helen spent the rest of that day riding and
tagging after her sister.

The next day was less hard on Helen.  Activity, rest, eating,
and sleeping took on a wonderful new meaning to her.  She had
really never known them as strange joys.  She rode, she
walked, she climbed a little, she dozed under her pine-tree,
she worked helping Dale at camp-fire tasks, and when night
came she said she did not know herself.  That fact haunted
her in vague, deep dreams.  Upon awakening she forgot her
resolve to study herself.  That day passed.  And then several
more went swiftly before she adapted herself to a situation
she had reason to believe might last for weeks and even months.


It was afternoon that Helen loved best of all the time of
the day.  The sunrise was fresh, beautiful; the morning was
windy, fragrant; the sunset was rosy, glorious; the twilight
was sad, changing; and night seemed infinitely sweet with
its stars and silence and sleep.  But the afternoon, when
nothing changed, when all was serene, when time seemed to
halt, that was her choice, and her solace.

One afternoon she had camp all to herself.  Bo was riding.
Dale had climbed the mountain to see if he could find any
trace of tracks or see any smoke from camp-fire.  Bud was
nowhere to be seen, nor any of the other pets.  Tom had gone
off to some sunny ledge where he could bask in the sun,
after the habit of the wilder brothers of his species.  Pedro
had not been seen for a night and a day, a fact that Helen
had noted with concern.  However, she had forgotten him, and
therefore was the more surprised to see him coming limping
into camp on three legs.

"Why, Pedro!  You have been fighting.  Come here," she called.

The hound did not look guilty.  He limped to her and held up
his right fore paw.  The action was unmistakable.  Helen
examined the injured member and presently found a piece of
what looked like mussel-shell embedded deeply between the
toes.  The wound was swollen, bloody, and evidently very
painful.  Pedro whined.  Helen had to exert all the strength
of her fingers to pull it out.  Then Pedro howled.  But
immediately he showed his gratitude by licking her hand.
Helen bathed his paw and bound it up.

When Dale returned she related the incident and, showing the
piece of shell, she asked: "Where did that come from?  Are
there shells in the mountains?"

"Once this country was under the sea," replied Dale.  "I've
found things that 'd make you wonder."

"Under the sea!" ejaculated Helen.  It was one thing to have
read of such a strange fact, but a vastly different one to
realize it here among these lofty peaks.  Dale was always
showing her something or telling her something that
astounded her.

"Look here," he said one day.  "What do you make of that
little bunch of aspens?"

They were on the farther side of the park and were resting
under a pine-tree.  The forest here encroached upon the park
with its straggling lines of spruce and groves of aspen.  The
little clump of aspens did not differ from hundreds Helen
had seen.

"I don't make anything particularly of it," replied Helen,
dubiously.  "Just a tiny grove of aspens -- some very small,
some larger, but none very big.  But it's pretty with its
green and yellow leaves fluttering and quivering."

"It doesn't make you think of a fight?"

"Fight?  No, it certainly does not," replied Helen.

"Well, it's as good an example of fight, of strife, of
selfishness, as you will find in the forest," he said.  "Now
come over, you an' Bo, an' let me show you what I mean."

"Come on, Nell," cried Bo, with enthusiasm.  "He'll open our
eyes some more."

Nothing loath, Helen went with them to the little clump of
aspens.

"About a hundred altogether," said Dale.  "They're pretty
well shaded by the spruces, but they get the sunlight from
east an' south.  These little trees all came from the same
seedlings.  They're all the same age.  Four of them stand,
say, ten feet or more high an' they're as large around as my
wrist.  Here's one that's largest.  See how full-foliaged he
is -- how he stands over most of the others, but not so much
over these four next to him.  They all stand close together,
very close, you see.  Most of them are no larger than my
thumb.  Look how few branches they have, an' none low down.
Look at how few leaves.  Do you see how all the branches
stand out toward the east an' south -- how the leaves, of
course, face the same way?  See how one branch of one tree
bends aside one from another tree.  That's a fight for the
sunlight.  Here are one -- two -- three dead trees.  Look, I
can snap them off.  An' now look down under them.  Here are
little trees five feet high -- four feet high -- down to
these only a foot high.  Look how pale, delicate, fragile,
unhealthy!  They get so little sunshine.  They were born with
the other trees, but did not get an equal start.  Position
gives the advantage, perhaps."

Dale led the girls around the little grove, illustrating his
words by action.  He seemed deeply in earnest.

"You understand it's a fight for water an' sun.  But mostly
sun, because, if the leaves can absorb the sun, the tree an'
roots will grow to grasp the needed moisture.  Shade is death
-- slow death to the life of trees.  These little aspens are
fightin' for place in the sunlight.  It is a merciless
battle.  They push an' bend one another's branches aside an'
choke them.  Only perhaps half of these aspens will survive,
to make one of the larger clumps, such as that one of
full-grown trees over there.  One season will give advantage
to this saplin' an' next year to that one.  A few seasons'
advantage to one assures its dominance over the others.  But
it is never sure of holdin' that dominance.  An 'if wind or
storm or a strong-growin' rival does not overthrow it, then
sooner or later old age will.  For there is absolute and
continual fight.  What is true of these aspens is true of all
the trees in the forest an' of all plant life in the forest.
What is most wonderful to me is the tenacity of life."

And next day Dale showed them an even more striking example
of this mystery of nature.

He guided them on horseback up one of the thick,
verdant-wooded slopes, calling their attention at various
times to the different growths, until they emerged on the
summit of the ridge where the timber grew scant and dwarfed.
At the edge of timber-line he showed a gnarled and knotted
spruce-tree, twisted out of all semblance to a beautiful
spruce, bent and storm-blasted, with almost bare branches,
all reaching one' way.  The tree was a specter.  It stood
alone.  It had little green upon it.  There seemed something
tragic about its contortions.  But it was alive and strong.
It had no rivals to take sun or moisture.  Its enemies were
the snow and wind and cold of the heights.

Helen felt, as the realization came to her, the knowledge
Dale wished to impart, that it was as sad as wonderful, and
as mysterious as it was inspiring.  At that moment there were
both the sting and sweetness of life -- the pain and the joy
-- in Helen's heart.  These strange facts were going to teach
her -- to transform her.  And even if they hurt, she welcomed
them.



CHAPTER XI

"I'll ride you if it breaks -- my neck!" panted Bo,
passionately, shaking her gloved fist at the gray pony.

Dale stood near with a broad smile on his face.  Helen was
within earshot, watching from the edge of the park, and she
felt so fascinated and frightened that she could not call
out for Bo to stop.  The little gray mustang was a beauty,
clean-limbed and racy, with long black mane and tail, and a
fine, spirited head.  There was a blanket strapped on his
back, but no saddle.  Bo held the short halter that had been
fastened in a hackamore knot round his nose.  She wore no
coat; her blouse was covered with grass and seeds, and it
was open at the neck; her hair hung loose and disheveled;
one side of her face bore a stain of grass and dirt and a
suspicion of blood; the other was red and white; her eyes
blazed; beads of sweat stood out on her brow and wet places
shone on her cheeks.  As she began to strain on the halter,
pulling herself closer to the fiery pony, the outline of her
slender shape stood out lithe and strong.

Bo had been defeated in her cherished and determined
ambition to ride Dale's mustang, and she was furious.  The
mustang did not appear to be vicious or mean.  But he was
spirited, tricky, mischievous, and he had thrown her six
times.  The scene of Bo's defeat was at the edge of the park,
where thick moss and grass afforded soft places for her to
fall.  It also afforded poor foothold for the gray mustang,
obviously placing him at a disadvantage.  Dale did not bridle
him, because he had not been broken to a bridle; and though
it was harder for Bo to try to ride him bareback, there was
less risk of her being hurt.  Bo had begun in all eagerness
and enthusiasm, loving and petting the mustang, which she
named "Pony." She had evidently anticipated an adventure,
but her smiling, resolute face had denoted confidence.  Pony
had stood fairly well to be mounted, and then had pitched
and tossed until Bo had slid off or been upset or thrown.
After each fall Bo bounced up with less of a smile, and more
of spirit, until now the Western passion to master a horse
had suddenly leaped to life within her.  It was no longer
fun, no more a daring circus trick to scare Helen and rouse
Dale's admiration.  The issue now lay between Bo and the
mustang.

Pony reared, snorting, tossing his head, and pawing with
front feet.

"Pull him down!" yelled Dale.

Bo did not have much weight, but she had strength, an she
hauled with all her might, finally bringing him down.

"Now hold hard an' take up rope an' get in to him," called
Dale.  "Good!  You're sure not afraid of him.  He sees that.
Now hold him, talk to him, tell him you're goin' to ride
him.  Pet him a little.  An' when he quits shakin', grab his
mane an' jump up an' slide a leg over him.  Then hook your
feet under him, hard as you can, an' stick on."

If Helen had not been so frightened for Bo she would have
been able to enjoy her other sensations.  Creeping, cold
thrills chased over her as Bo, supple and quick, slid an arm
and a leg over Pony and straightened up on him with a
defiant cry.  Pony jerked his head down, brought his feet
together in one jump, and began to bounce.  Bo got the swing
of him this time and stayed on.

"You're ridin' him," yelled Dale.  "Now squeeze hard with
your knees.  Crack him over the head with your rope. . . .
That's the way.  Hang on now an' you'll have him beat."

The mustang pitched all over the space adjacent to Dale and
Helen, tearing up the moss and grass.  Several times he
tossed Bo high, but she slid back to grip him again with her
legs, and he could not throw her.  Suddenly he raised his
head and bolted.  Dale answered Bo's triumphant cry.  But Pony
had not run fifty feet before he tripped and fell, throwing
Bo far over his head.  As luck would have it -- good luck,
Dale afterward said -- she landed in a boggy place and the
force of her momentum was such that she slid several yards,
face down, in wet moss and black ooze.

Helen uttered a scream and ran forward.  Bo was getting to
her knees when Dale reached her.  He helped her up and half
led, half carried her out of the boggy place.  Bo was not
recognizable.  From head to foot she was dripping black ooze.

"Oh, Bo!  Are you hurt?" cried Helen.

Evidently Bo's mouth was full of mud.

"Pp--su--tt!  Ough!  Whew!" she sputtered.  "Hurt?  No!  Can't
you see what I lit in?  Dale, the sun-of-a-gun didn't throw
me.  He fell, and I went over his head."

"Right.  You sure rode him.  An' he tripped an' slung you a
mile," replied Dale.  "It's lucky you lit in that bog."

"Lucky!  With eyes and nose stopped up?  Oooo!  I'm full of
mud.  And my nice -- new riding-suit!"

Bo's tones indicated that she was ready to cry.  Helen,
realizing Bo had not been hurt, began to laugh.  Her sister
was the funniest-looking object that had ever come before
her eyes.

"Nell Rayner -- are you -- laughing -- at me?" demanded Bo,
in most righteous amaze and anger.

"Me laugh-ing?  N-never, Bo," replied Helen.  "Can't you see
I'm just -- just --"

"See?  You idiot!  my eyes are full of mud!" flashed Bo.  "But
I hear you.  I'll -- I'll get even."

Dale was laughing, too, but noiselessly, and Bo, being blind
for the moment, could not be aware of that.  By this time
they had reached camp.  Helen fell flat and laughed as she
had never laughed before.  When Helen forgot herself so far
as to roll on the ground it was indeed a laughing matter.
Dale's big frame shook as he possessed himself of a towel
and, wetting it at the spring, began to wipe the mud off
Bo's face.  But that did not serve.  Bo asked to be led to the
water, where she knelt and, with splashing, washed out her
eyes, and then her face, and then the bedraggled strands of
hair.

"That mustang didn't break my neck, but he rooted my face in
the mud.  I'll fix him," she muttered, as she got up.  "Please
let me have the towel, now. . . .  Well!  Milt Dale, you're
laughing!"

"Ex-cuse me, Bo.  I -- Haw!  haw!  haw!" Then Dale lurched off,
holding his sides.

Bo gazed after him and then back at Helen.

"I suppose if I'd been kicked and smashed and killed you'd
laugh," she said.  And then she melted.  "Oh, my pretty
riding-suit!  What a mess!  I must be a sight. . . .  Nell, I
rode that wild pony -- the sun-of-a-gun!  I rode him!  That's
enough for me.  YOU try it.  Laugh all you want.  It was funny.
But if you want to square yourself with me, help me clean my
clothes."


Late in the night Helen heard Dale sternly calling Pedro.
She felt some little alarm.  However, nothing happened, and
she soon went to sleep again.  At the morning meal Dale
explained.

"Pedro an' Tom were uneasy last night.  I think there are
lions workin' over the ridge somewhere.  I heard one scream."

"Scream?" inquired Bo, with interest.

"Yes, an' if you ever hear a lion scream you will think it a
woman in mortal agony.  The cougar cry, as Roy calls it, is
the wildest to be heard in the woods.  A wolf howls.  He is
sad, hungry, and wild.  But a cougar seems human an' dyin'
an' wild.  We'll saddle up an' ride over there.  Maybe Pedro
will tree a lion.  Bo, if he does will you shoot it?"

"Sure," replied Bo, with her mouth full of biscuit.

That was how they came to take a long, slow, steep ride
under cover of dense spruce.  Helen liked the ride after they
got on the heights.  But they did not get to any point where
she could indulge in her pleasure of gazing afar over the
ranges.  Dale led up and down, and finally mostly down, until
they came out within sight of sparser wooded ridges with
parks lying below and streams shining in the sun.

More than once Pedro had to be harshly called by Dale.  The
hound scented game.

"Here's an old kill," said Dale, halting to point at some
bleached bones scattered under a spruce.  Tufts of
grayish-white hair lay strewn around.

"What was it?" asked Bo.

"Deer, of course.  Killed there an' eaten by a lion.  Sometime
last fall.  See, even the skull is split.  But I could not say
that the lion did it."

Helen shuddered.  She thought of the tame deer down at Dale's
camp.  How beautiful and graceful, and responsive to
kindness!

They rode out of the woods into a grassy swale with rocks
and clumps of some green bushes bordering it.  Here Pedro
barked, the first time Helen had heard him.  The hair on his
neck bristled, and it required stern calls from Dale to hold
him in.  Dale dismounted.

"Hyar, Pede, you get back," he ordered.  "I'll let you go
presently. . . .  Girls, you're goin' to see somethin'.  But
stay on your horses."

Dale, with the hound tense and bristling beside him, strode
here and there at the edge of the swale.  Presently he halted
on a slight elevation and beckoned for the girls to ride
over.

"Here, see where the grass is pressed down all nice an'
round," he said, pointing.  "A lion made that.  He sneaked
there, watchin' for deer.  That was done this mornin'.  Come
on, now.  Let's see if we can trail him."

Dale stooped now, studying the grass, and holding Pedro.
Suddenly he straightened up with a flash in his gray eyes.

"Here's where he jumped."

But Helen could not see any reason why Dale should say that.
The man of the forest took a long stride then another.

"An' here's where that lion lit on the back of the deer.  It
was a big jump.  See the sharp hoof tracks of the deer." Dale
pressed aside tall grass to show dark, rough, fresh tracks
of a deer, evidently made by violent action.

"Come on," called Dale, walking swiftly.  "You're sure goin'
to see somethin' now. . . .  Here's where the deer bounded,
carryin' the lion."

"What!" exclaimed Bo, incredulously.

"The deer was runnin' here with the lion on his back.  I'll
prove it to you.  Come on, now.  Pedro, you stay with me.
Girls, it's a fresh trail." Dale walked along, leading his
horse, and occasionally he pointed down into the grass.
"There!  See that!  That's hair."

Helen did see some tufts of grayish hair scattered on the
ground, and she believed she saw little, dark separations in
the grass, where an animal had recently passed.  All at once
Dale halted.  When Helen reached him Bo was already there and
they were gazing down at a wide, flattened space in the
grass.  Even Helen's inexperienced eyes could make out
evidences of a struggle.  Tufts of gray-white hair lay upon
the crushed grass.  Helen did not need to see any more, but
Dale silently pointed to a patch of blood.  Then he spoke:

"The lion brought the deer down here an' killed him.
Probably broke his neck.  That deer ran a hundred yards with
the lion.  See, here's the trail left where the lion dragged
the deer off."

A well-defined path showed across the swale.

"Girls, you'll see that deer pretty quick," declared Dale,
starting forward.  "This work has just been done.  Only a few
minutes ago."

"How can you tell?" queried Bo.

"Look!  See that grass.  It has been bent down by the deer
bein' dragged over it.  Now it's springin' up."

Dale's next stop was on the other side of the swale, under a
spruce with low, spreading branches.  The look of Pedro
quickened Helen's pulse.  He was wild to give chase.
Fearfully Helen looked where Dale pointed, expecting to see
the lion.  But she saw instead a deer lying prostrate with
tongue out and sightless eyes and bloody hair.

"Girls, that lion heard us an' left.  He's not far," said
Dale, as he stooped to lift the head of the deer.  "Warm!
Neck broken.  See the lion's teeth an' claw marks. . . .  It's
a doe.  Look here.  Don't be squeamish, girls.  This is only an
hourly incident of everyday life in the forest.  See where
the lion has rolled the skin down as neat as I could do it,
an' he'd just begun to bite in there when he heard us."

"What murderous work, The sight sickens me!" exclaimed
Helen.

"It is nature," said Dale, simply.

"Let's kill the lion," added Bo.

For answer Dale took a quick turn at their saddle-girths,
and then, mounting, he called to the hound.  "Hunt him up,
Pedro."

Like a shot the hound was off.

"Ride in my tracks an' keep close to me," called Dale, as he
wheeled his horse.

"We're off!" squealed Bo, in wild delight, and she made her
mount plunge.

Helen urged her horse after them and they broke across a
corner of the swale to the woods.  Pedro was running straight,
with his nose high.  He let out one short bark.  He headed
into the woods, with Dale not far behind.  Helen was on one
of Dale's best horses, but that fact scarcely manifested
itself, because the others began to increase their lead.
They entered the woods.  It was open, and fairly good going.
Bo's horse ran as fast in the woods as he did in the open.
That frightened Helen and she yelled to Bo to hold him in.
She yelled to deaf ears.  That was Bo's great risk -- she did
not intend to be careful.  Suddenly the forest rang with
Dale's encouraging yell, meant to aid the girls in following
him.  Helen's horse caught the spirit of the chase.  He gained
somewhat on Bo, hurdling logs, sometimes two at once.
Helen's blood leaped with a strange excitement, utterly
unfamiliar and as utterly resistless.  Yet her natural fear,
and the intelligence that reckoned with the foolish risk of
this ride, shared alike in her sum of sensations.  She tried
to remember Dale's caution about dodging branches and snags,
and sliding her knees back to avoid knocks from trees.  She
barely missed some frightful reaching branches.  She received
a hard knock, then another, that unseated her, but
frantically she held on and slid back, and at the end of a
long run through comparatively open forest she got a
stinging blow in the face from a far-spreading branch of
pine.  Bo missed, by what seemed only an inch, a solid snag
that would have broken her in two.  Both Pedro and Dale got
out of Helen's sight.  Then Helen, as she began to lose Bo,
felt that she would rather run greater risks than be left
behind to get lost in the forest, and she urged her horse.
Dale's yell pealed back.  Then it seemed even more thrilling
to follow by sound than by sight.  Wind and brush tore at
her.  The air was heavily pungent with odor of pine.  Helen
heard a wild, full bay of the hound, ringing back, full of
savage eagerness, and she believed Pedro had roused out the
lion from some covert.  It lent more stir to her blood and it
surely urged her horse on faster.

Then the swift pace slackened.  A windfall of timber delayed
Helen.  She caught a glimpse of Dale far ahead, climbing a
slope.  The forest seemed full of his ringing yell.  Helen
strangely wished for level ground and the former swift
motion.  Next she saw Bo working down to the right, and
Dale's yell now came from that direction.  Helen followed,
got out of the timber, and made better time on a gradual
slope down to another park.

When she reached the open she saw Bo almost across this
narrow open ground.  Here Helen did not need to urge her
mount.  He snorted and plunged at the level and he got to
going so fast that Helen would have screamed aloud in
mingled fear and delight if she had not been breathless.

Her horse had the bad luck to cross soft ground.  He went to
his knees and Helen sailed out of the saddle over his head.
Soft willows and wet grass broke her fall.  She was surprised
to find herself unhurt.  Up she bounded and certainly did not
know this new Helen Rayner.  Her horse was coming, and he had
patience with her, but he wanted to hurry.  Helen made the
quickest mount of her experience and somehow felt a pride in
it.  She would tell Bo that.  But just then Bo flashed into
the woods out of sight.  Helen fairly charged into that green
foliage, breaking brush and branches.  She broke through into
open forest.  Bo was inside, riding down an aisle between
pines and spruces.  At that juncture Helen heard Dale's
melodious yell near at hand.  Coming into still more open
forest, with rocks here and there, she saw Dale dismounted
under a pine, and Pedro standing with fore paws upon the
tree-trunk, and then high up on a branch a huge tawny
colored lion, just like Tom.

Bo's horse slowed up and showed fear, but he kept on as far
as Dale's horse.  But Helen's refused to go any nearer.  She
had difficulty in halting him.  Presently she dismounted and,
throwing her bridle over a stump, she ran on, panting and
fearful, yet tingling all over, up to her sister and Dale.

"Nell, you did pretty good for a tenderfoot," was Bo's
greeting.

"It was a fine chase," said Dale.  "You both rode well.  I
wish you could have seen the lion on the ground.  He bounded
-- great long bounds with his tail up in the air -- very
funny.  An' Pedro almost caught up with him.  That scared me,
because he would have killed the hound.  Pedro was close to
him when he treed.  An' there he is -- the yellow
deer-killer.  He's a male an' full grown."

With that Dale pulled his rifle from its saddle-sheath and
looked expectantly at Bo.  But she was gazing with great
interest and admiration up at the lion.

"Isn't he just beautiful?" she burst out.  "Oh, look at him
spit!  Just like a cat!  Dale, he looks afraid he might fall
off."

"He sure does.  Lions are never sure of their balance in a
tree.  But I never saw one make a misstep.  He knows he
doesn't belong there."

To Helen the lion looked splendid perched up there.  He was
long and round and graceful and tawny.  His tongue hung out
and his plump sides heaved, showing what a quick, hard run
he had been driven to.  What struck Helen most forcibly about
him was something in his face as he looked down at the
hound.  He was scared.  He realized his peril.  It was not
possible for Helen to watch him killed, yet she could not
bring herself to beg Bo not to shoot.  Helen confessed she
was a tenderfoot.

"Get down, Bo, an' let's see how good a shot you are, said
Dale.  Bo slowly withdrew her fascinated gaze from the lion
and looked with a rueful smile at Dale.

"I've changed my mind.  I said I would kill him, but now I
can't.  He looks so -- so different from what I'd imagined."

Dale's answer was a rare smile of understanding and approval
that warmed Helen's heart toward him.  All the same, he was
amused.  Sheathing the gun, he mounted his horse.

"Come on, Pedro," he called.  "Come, I tell you," he added,
sharply, "Well, girls, we treed him, anyhow, an' it was fun.
Now we'll ride back to the deer he killed an' pack a haunch
to camp for our own use."

"Will the lion go back to his -- his kill, I think you
called it?" asked Bo.

"I've chased one away from his kill half a dozen times.
Lions are not plentiful here an' they don't get overfed.  I
reckon the balance is pretty even."

This last remark made Helen inquisitive.  And as they slowly
rode on the back-trail Dale talked.

"You girls, bein' tender-hearted an' not knowin' the life of
the forest, what's good an' what's bad, think it was a pity
the poor deer was killed by a murderous lion.  But you're
wrong.  As I told you, the lion is absolutely necessary to
the health an' joy of wild life -- or deer's wild life, so
to speak.  When deer were created or came into existence,
then the lion must have come, too.  They can't live without
each other.  Wolves, now, are not particularly deer-killers.
They live off elk an' anythin' they can catch.  So will
lions, for that matter.  But I mean lions follow the deer to
an' fro from winter to summer feedin'-grounds.  Where there's
no deer you will find no lions.  Well, now, if left alone
deer would multiply very fast.  In a few years there would be
hundreds where now there's only one.  An' in time, as the
generations passed, they'd lose the fear, the alertness, the
speed an' strength, the eternal vigilance that is love of
life -- they'd lose that an' begin to deteriorate, an'
disease would carry them off.  I saw one season of
black-tongue among deer.  It killed them off, an' I believe
that is one of the diseases of over-production.  The lions,
now, are forever on the trail of the deer.  They have
learned.  Wariness is an instinct born in the fawn.  It makes
him keen, quick, active, fearful, an' so he grows up strong
an' healthy to become the smooth, sleek, beautiful,
soft-eyed, an' wild-lookin' deer you girls love to watch.
But if it wasn't for the lions, the deer would not thrive.
Only the strongest an' swiftest survive.  That is the meanin'
of nature.  There is always a perfect balance kept by nature.
It may vary in different years, but on the whole, in the
long years, it averages an even balance."

"How wonderfully you put it!" exclaimed Bo, with all her
impulsiveness.  "Oh, I'm glad I didn't kill the lion."

"What you say somehow hurts me," said Helen, wistfully, to
the hunter.  "I see -- I feel how true -- how inevitable it
is.  But it changes my -- my feelings.  Almost I'd rather not
acquire such knowledge as yours.  This balance of nature --
how tragic -- how sad!"

"But why?" asked Dale.  "You love birds, an' birds are the
greatest killers in the forest."

"Don't tell me that -- don't prove it," implored Helen.  "It
is not so much the love of life in a deer or any creature,
and the terrible clinging to life, that gives me distress.
It is suffering.  I can't bear to see pain.  I can STAND pain
myself, but I can't BEAR to see or think of it."

"Well," replied.  Dale, thoughtfully, "There you stump me
again.  I've lived long in the forest an' when a man's alone
he does a heap of thinkin'.  An' always I couldn't understand
a reason or a meanin' for pain.  Of all the bafflin' things
of life, that is the hardest to understand an' to forgive --
pain!"


That evening, as they sat in restful places round the
camp-fire, with the still twilight fading into night, Dale
seriously asked the girls what the day's chase had meant to
them.  His manner of asking was productive of thought.  Both
girls were silent for a moment.

"Glorious!" was Bo's brief and eloquent reply.

"Why?" asked.  Dale, curiously.  "You are a girl.  You've been
used to home, people, love, comfort, safety, quiet."

"Maybe that is just why it was glorious," said Bo,
earnestly.  "I can hardly explain.  I loved the motion of the
horse, the feel of wind in my face, the smell of the pine,
the sight of slope and forest glade and windfall and rocks,
and the black shade under the spruces.  My blood beat and
burned.  My teeth clicked.  My nerves all quivered.  My heart
sometimes, at dangerous moments, almost choked me, and all
the time it pounded hard.  Now my skin was hot and then it
was cold.  But I think the best of that chase for me was that
I was on a fast horse, guiding him, controlling him.  He was
alive.  Oh, how I felt his running!"

"Well, what you say is as natural to me as if I felt it,"
said Dale.  "I wondered.  You're certainly full of fire, An',
Helen, what do you say?"

"Bo has answered you with her feelings," replied Helen, "I
could not do that and be honest.  The fact that Bo wouldn't
shoot the lion after we treed him acquits her.  Nevertheless,
her answer is purely physical.  You know, Mr.  Dale, how you
talk about the physical.  I should say my sister was just a
young, wild, highly sensitive, hot-blooded female of the
species.  She exulted in that chase as an Indian.  Her
sensations were inherited ones -- certainly not acquired by
education.  Bo always hated study.  The ride was a revelation
to me.  I had a good many of Bo's feelings -- though not so
strong.  But over against them was the opposition of reason,
of consciousness.  A new-born side of my nature confronted
me, strange, surprising, violent, irresistible.  It was as if
another side of my personality suddenly said: 'Here I am.
Reckon with me now!' And there was no use for the moment to
oppose that strange side.  I -- the thinking Helen Rayner,
was powerless.  Oh yes, I had such thoughts even when the
branches were stinging my face and I was thrilling to the
bay of the hound.  Once my horse fell and threw me. . . .  You
needn't look alarmed.  It was fine.  I went into a soft place
and was unhurt.  But when I was sailing through the air a
thought flashed: this is the end of me!  It was like a dream
when you are falling dreadfully.  Much of what I felt and
thought on that chase must have been because of what I have
studied and read and taught.  The reality of it, the action
and flash, were splendid.  But fear of danger, pity for the
chased lion, consciousness of foolish risk, of a reckless
disregard for the serious responsibility I have taken -- all
these worked in my mind and held back what might have been a
sheer physical, primitive joy of the wild moment."

Dale listened intently, and after Helen had finished he
studied the fire and thoughtfully poked the red embers with
his stick.  His face was still and serene, untroubled and
unlined, but to Helen his eyes seemed sad, pensive,
expressive of an unsatisfied yearning and wonder.  She had
carefully and earnestly spoken, because she was very curious
to hear what he might say.

"I understand you," he replied, presently.  "An' I'm sure
surprised that I can.  I've read my books -- an' reread them,
but no one ever talked like that to me.  What I make of it is
this.  You've the same blood in you that's in Bo.  An' blood
is stronger than brain.  Remember that blood is life.  It
would be good for you to have it run an' beat an' burn, as
Bo's did.  Your blood did that a thousand years or ten
thousand before intellect was born in your ancestors.
Instinct may not be greater than reason, but it's a million
years older.  Don't fight your instincts so hard.  If they
were not good the God of Creation would not have given them
to you.  To-day your mind was full of self-restraint that did
not altogether restrain.  You couldn't forget yourself.  You
couldn't FEEL only, as Bo did.  You couldn't be true to your
real nature."

"I don't agree with you," replied Helen, quickly.  "I don't
have to be an Indian to be true to myself."

"Why, yes you do," said Dale.

"But I couldn't be an Indian," declared Helen, spiritedly.
"I couldn't FEEL only, as you say Bo did.  I couldn't go back
in the scale, as you hint.  What would all my education
amount to -- though goodness knows it's little enough -- if
I had no control over primitive feelings that happened to be
born in me?"

"You'll have little or no control over them when the right
time comes," replied Dale.  "Your sheltered life an'
education have led you away from natural instincts.  But
they're in you an' you'll learn the proof of that out here."

"No.  Not if I lived a hundred years in the West," asserted
Helen.

"But, child, do you know what you're talkin' about?"

Here Bo let out a blissful peal of laughter.

"Mr.  Dale!" exclaimed Helen, almost affronted.  She was
stirred.  "I know MYSELF, at least."

"But you do not.  You've no idea of yourself.  You've
education, yes, but not in nature an' life.  An' after all,
they are the real things.  Answer me, now -- honestly, will
you?"

"Certainly, if I can.  Some of your questions are hard to
answer."

"Have you ever been starved?" he asked.

"No," replied Helen.

"Have you ever been lost away from home?"

"No."

"Have you ever faced death -- real stark an' naked death,
close an' terrible?"

"No, indeed."

"Have you ever wanted to kill any one with your bare hands?"

"Oh, Mr.  Dale, you -- you amaze me.  No!  . . .  No!"

"I reckon I know your answer to my last question, but I'll
ask it, anyhow. . . .  Have you ever been so madly in love
with a man that you could not live without him?"

Bo fell off her seat with a high, trilling laugh.  "Oh, you
two are great!"

"Thank Heaven, I haven't been," replied Helen, shortly.

"Then you don't know anythin' about life," declared Dale,
with finality.

Helen was not to be put down by that, dubious and troubled
as it made her.

"Have you experienced all those things?" she queried,
stubbornly.

"All but the last one.  Love never came my way.  How could it?
I live alone.  I seldom go to the villages where there are
girls.  No girl would ever care for me.  I have nothin'. . . .
But, all the same, I understand love a little, just by
comparison with strong feelin's I've lived."

Helen watched the hunter and marveled at his simplicity.  His
sad and penetrating gaze was on the fire, as if in its white
heart to read the secret denied him.  He had said that no
girl would ever love him.  She imagined he might know
considerably less about the nature of girls than of the
forest.

"To come back to myself," said Helen, wanting to continue
the argument.  "You declared I didn't know myself.  That I
would have no self-control.  I will!"

"I meant the big things of life," he said, patiently.

"What things?"

"I told you.  By askin' what had never happened to you I
learned what will happen."

"Those experiences to come to ME!" breathed Helen,
incredulously.  "Never!"

"Sister Nell, they sure will -- particularly the last-named
one -- the mad love," chimed in Bo, mischievously, yet
believingly.

Neither Dale nor Helen appeared to hear her interruption.

"Let me put it simpler," began Dale, evidently racking his
brain for analogy.  His perplexity appeared painful to him,
because he had a great faith, a great conviction that he
could not make clear.  "Here I am, the natural physical man,
livin' in the wilds.  An' here you come, the complex,
intellectual woman.  Remember, for my argument's sake, that
you're here.  An' suppose circumstances forced you to stay
here.  You'd fight the elements with me an' work with me to
sustain life.  There must be a great change in either you or
me, accordin' to the other's influence.  An' can't you see
that change must come in you, not because of anythin'
superior in me -- I'm really inferior to you -- but because
of our environment?  You'd lose your complexity.  An' in years
to come you'd be a natural physical woman, because you'd
live through an' by the physical."

"Oh dear, will not education be of help to the Western
woman?" queried Helen, almost in despair.

"Sure it will," answered Dale, promptly.  "What the West
needs is women who can raise an' teach children.  But you
don't understand me.  You don't get under your skin.  I reckon
I can't make you see my argument as I feel it.  You take my
word for this, though.  Sooner or later you WILL wake up an'
forget yourself.  Remember."

"Nell, I'll bet you do, too," said Bo, seriously for her.
"It may seem strange to you, but I understand Dale.  I feel
what he means.  It's a sort of shock.  Nell, we're not what we
seem.  We're not what we fondly imagine we are.  We've lived
too long with people -- too far away from the earth.  You
know the Bible says something like this: 'Dust thou art and
to dust thou shalt return.' Where DO we come from?"



CHAPTER XII

Days passed.

Every morning Helen awoke with a wondering question as to
what this day would bring forth, especially with regard to
possible news from her uncle.  It must come sometime and she
was anxious for it.  Something about this simple, wild camp
life had begun to grip her.  She found herself shirking daily
attention to the clothes she had brought West.  They needed
it, but she had begun to see how superficial they really
were.  On the other hand, camp-fire tasks had come to be a
pleasure.  She had learned a great deal more about them than
had Bo.  Worry and dread were always impinging upon the
fringe of her thoughts -- always vaguely present, though
seldom annoying.  They were like shadows in dreams.  She
wanted to get to her uncle's ranch, to take up the duties of
her new life.  But she was not prepared to believe she would
not regret this wild experience.  She must get away from that
in order to see it clearly, and she began to have doubts of
herself.

Meanwhile the active and restful outdoor life went on.  Bo
leaned more and more toward utter reconciliation to it.  Her
eyes had a wonderful flash, like blue lightning; her cheeks
were gold and brown; her hands tanned dark as an Indian's.

She could vault upon the gray mustang, or, for that matter,
clear over his back.  She learned to shoot a rifle accurately
enough to win Dale's praise, and vowed she would like to
draw a bead upon a grizzly bear or upon Snake Anson.

"Bo, if you met that grizzly Dale said has been prowling
round camp lately you'd run right up a tree," declared
Helen, one morning, when Bo seemed particularly boastful.

"Don't fool yourself," retorted Bo.

"But I've seen you run from a mouse!"

"Sister, couldn't I be afraid of a mouse and not a bear?"

"I don't see how."

"Well, bears, lions, outlaws, and other wild beasts are to
be met with here in the West, and my mind's made up," said
Bo, in slow-nodding deliberation.

They argued as they had always argued, Helen for reason and
common sense and restraint, Bo on the principle that if she
must fight it was better to get in the first blow.

The morning on which this argument took place Dale was a
long time in catching the horses.  When he did come in he
shook his head seriously.

"Some varmint's been chasin' the horses," he said, as he
reached for his saddle.  "Did you hear them snortin' an'
runnin' last night?"

Neither of the girls had been awakened.

"I missed one of the colts," went on Dale, "an' I'm goin' to
ride across the park."

Dale's movements were quick and stern.  It was significant
that he chose his heavier rifle, and, mounting, with a sharp
call to Pedro, he rode off without another word to the
girls.

Bo watched him for a moment and then began to saddle the
mustang.

"You won't follow him?" asked Helen, quickly.

"I sure will," replied Bo.  "He didn't forbid it."

"But he certainly did not want us."

"He might not want you, but I'll bet he wouldn't object to
me, whatever's up," said Bo, shortly.

"Oh!  So you think --" exclaimed Helen, keenly hurt.  She bit
her tongue to keep back a hot reply.  And it was certain that
a bursting gush of anger flooded over her.  Was she, then,
such a coward?  Did Dale think this slip of a sister, so wild
and wilful, was a stronger woman than she?  A moment's silent
strife convinced her that no doubt he thought so and no
doubt he was right.  Then the anger centered upon herself,
and Helen neither understood nor trusted herself.

The outcome proved an uncontrollable impulse.  Helen began to
saddle her horse.  She had the task half accomplished when
Bo's call made her look up.

"Listen!"

Helen heard a ringing, wild bay of the hound.

"That's Pedro," she said, with a thrill.

"Sure.  He's running.  We never heard him bay like that
before."

"Where's Dale?"

"He rode out of sight across there," replied Bo, pointing.
"And Pedro's running toward us along that slope.  He must be
a mile -- two miles from Dale."

"But Dale will follow."

"Sure.  But he'd need wings to get near that hound now.  Pedro
couldn't have gone across there with him . . . just
listen."

The wild note of the hound manifestly stirred Bo to
irrepressible action.  Snatching up Dale's lighter rifle, she
shoved it into her saddle-sheath, and, leaping on the
mustang, she ran him over brush and brook, straight down the
park toward the place Pedro was climbing.  For an instant
Helen stood amazed beyond speech.  When Bo sailed over a big
log, like a steeple-chaser, then Helen answered to further
unconsidered impulse by frantically getting her saddle
fastened.  Without coat or hat she mounted.  The nervous horse
bolted almost before she got into the saddle.  A strange,
trenchant trembling coursed through all her veins.  She
wanted to scream for Bo to wait.  Bo was out of sight, but
the deep, muddy tracks in wet places and the path through
the long grass afforded Helen an easy trail to follow.  In
fact, her horse needed no guiding.  He ran in and out of the
straggling spruces along the edge of the park, and suddenly
wheeled around a corner of trees to come upon the gray
mustang standing still.  Bo was looking up and listening.

"There he is!" cried Bo, as the hound bayed ringingly,
closer to them this time, and she spurred away.

Helen's horse followed without urging.  He was excited.  His
ears were up.  Something was in the wind.  Helen had never
ridden along this broken end of the park, and Bo was not
easy to keep up with.  She led across bogs, brooks, swales,
rocky little ridges, through stretches of timber and groves
of aspen so thick Helen could scarcely squeeze through.  Then
Bo came out into a large open offshoot of the park, right
under the mountain slope, and here she sat, her horse
watching and listening.  Helen rode up to her, imagining once
that she had heard the hound.

"Look!  Look!" Bo's scream made her mustang stand almost
straight up.

Helen gazed up to see a big brown bear with a frosted coat
go lumbering across an opening on the slope.

"It's a grizzly!  He'll kill Pedro!  Oh, where is Dale!" cried
Bo, with intense excitement.

"Bo!  That bear is running down!  We -- we must get -- out of
his road," panted Helen, in breathless alarm.

"Dale hasn't had time to be close. . . .  Oh, I wish he'd
come!  I don't know what to do."

"Ride back.  At least wait for him."

Just then Pedro spoke differently, in savage barks, and
following that came a loud growl and crashings in the brush.
These sounds appeared to be not far up the slope.

"Nell!  Do you hear?  Pedro's fighting the bear," burst out
Bo.  Her face paled, her eyes flashed like blue steel.  "The
bear 'll kill him!"

"Oh, that would be dreadful!" replied Helen, in distress.
"But what on earth can we do?"

"HEL-LO, DALE!" called Bo, at the highest pitch of her
piercing voice.

No answer came.  A heavy crash of brush, a rolling of stones,
another growl from the slope told Helen that the hound had
brought the bear to bay.

"Nell, I'm going up," said Bo, deliberately.

"No-no!  Are you mad?" returned Helen.

"The bear will kill Pedro."

"He might kill you."

"You ride that way and yell for Dale," rejoined Bo.

"What will -- you do?" gasped Helen.

"I'll shoot at the bear -- scare him off.  If he chases me he
can't catch me coming downhill.  Dale said that."

"You're crazy!" cried Helen, as Bo looked up the slope,
searching for open ground.  Then she pulled the rifle from
its sheath.

But Bo did not hear or did not care.  She spurred the
mustang, and he, wild to run, flung grass and dirt from his
heels.  What Helen would have done then she never knew, but
the fact was that her horse bolted after the mustang.  In an
instant, seemingly, Bo had disappeared in the gold and green
of the forest slope.  Helen's mount climbed on a run,
snorting and heaving, through aspens, brush, and timber, to
come out into a narrow, long opening extending lengthwise up
the slope.

A sudden prolonged crash ahead alarmed Helen and halted her
horse.  She saw a shaking of aspens.  Then a huge brown beast
leaped as a cat out of the woods.  It was a bear of enormous
size.  Helen's heart stopped -- her tongue clove to the roof
of her mouth.  The bear turned.  His mouth was open, red and
dripping.  He looked shaggy, gray.  He let out a terrible
bawl.  Helen's every muscle froze stiff.  Her horse plunged
high and sidewise, wheeling almost in the air, neighing his
terror.  Like a stone she dropped from the saddle.  She did
not see the horse break into the woods, but she heard him.
Her gaze never left the bear even while she was falling, and
it seemed she alighted in an upright position with her back
against a bush.  It upheld her.  The bear wagged his huge head
from side to side.  Then, as the hound barked close at hand,
he turned to run heavily uphill and out of the opening.

The instant of his disappearance was one of collapse for
Helen.  Frozen with horror, she had been unable to move or
feel or think.  All at once she was a quivering mass of cold,
helpless flesh, wet with perspiration, sick with a
shuddering, retching, internal convulsion, her mind
liberated from paralyzing shock.  The moment was as horrible
as that in which the bear had bawled his frightful rage.  A
stark, icy, black emotion seemed in possession of her.  She
could not lift a hand, yet all of her body appeared shaking.
There was a fluttering, a strangling in her throat.  The
crushing weight that surrounded her heart eased before she
recovered use of her limbs.  Then, the naked and terrible
thing was gone, like a nightmare giving way to
consciousness.  What blessed relief!  Helen wildly gazed about
her.  The bear and hound were out of sight, and so was her
horse.  She stood up very dizzy and weak.  Thought of Bo then
seemed to revive her, to shock different life and feeling
throughout all her cold extremities.  She listened.

She heard a thudding of hoofs down the slope, then Dale's
clear, strong call.  She answered.  It appeared long before he
burst out of the woods, riding hard and leading her horse.
In that time she recovered fully, and when he reached her,
to put a sudden halt upon the fiery Ranger, she caught the
bridle he threw and swiftly mounted her horse.  The feel of
the saddle seemed different.  Dale's piercing gray glance
thrilled her strangely.

"You're white.  Are you hurt?" he said.

"No.  I was scared."

"But he threw you?"

"Yes, he certainly threw me."

"What happened?"

"We heard the hound and we rode along the timber.  Then we
saw the bear -- a monster -- white -- coated --"

"I know.  It's a grizzly.  He killed the colt -- your pet.
Hurry now.  What about Bo?"

"Pedro was fighting the bear.  Bo said he'd be killed.  She
rode right up here.  My horse followed.  I couldn't have
stopped him.  But we lost Bo.  Right there the bear came out.
He roared.  My horse threw me and ran off.  Pedro's barking
saved me -- my life, I think.  Oh!  that was awful!  Then the
bear went up -- there. . . .  And you came."

"Bo's followin' the hound!" ejaculated Dale.  And, lifting
his hands to his mouth, he sent out a stentorian yell that
rolled up the slope, rang against the cliffs, pealed and
broke and died away.  Then he waited, listening.  From far up
the slope came a faint, wild cry, high-pitched and sweet, to
create strange echoes, floating away to die in the ravines.

"She's after him!" declared Dale, grimly.

"Bo's got your rifle," said Helen.  "Oh, we must hurry."

"You go back," ordered Dale, wheeling his horse.

"No!" Helen felt that word leave her lips with the force of
a bullet.

Dale spurred Ranger and took to the open slope.  Helen kept
at his heels until timber was reached.  Here a steep trail
led up.  Dale dismounted.

"Horse tracks -- bear tracks -- dog tracks," he said,
bending over.  "We'll have to walk up here.  It'll save our
horses an' maybe time, too."

"Is Bo riding up there?" asked Helen, eying the steep
ascent.

"She sure is." With that Dale started up, leading his horse.
Helen followed.  It was rough and hard work.  She was lightly
clad, yet soon she was hot, laboring, and her heart began to
hurt.  When Dale halted to rest Helen was just ready to drop.
The baying of the hound, though infrequent, inspirited her.
But presently that sound was lost.  Dale said bear and hound
had gone over the ridge and as soon as the top was gained he
would hear them again.

"Look there," he said, presently, pointing to fresh tracks,
larger than those made by Bo's mustang.  "Elk tracks.  We've
scared a big bull an' he's right ahead of us.  Look sharp an'
you'll see him."

Helen never climbed so hard and fast before, and when they
reached the ridge-top she was all tuckered out.  It was all
she could do to get on her horse.  Dale led along the crest
of this wooded ridge toward the western end, which was
considerably higher.  In places open rocky ground split the
green timber.  Dale pointed toward a promontory.

Helen saw a splendid elk silhouetted against the sky.  He was
a light gray over all his hindquarters, with shoulders and
head black.  His ponderous, wide-spread antlers towered over
him, adding to the wildness of his magnificent poise as he
stood there, looking down into the valley, no doubt
listening for the bay of the hound.  When he heard Dale's
horse he gave one bound, gracefully and wonderfully carrying
his antlers, to disappear in the green.

Again on a bare patch of ground Dale pointed down.  Helen saw
big round tracks, toeing in a little, that gave her a chill.
She knew these were grizzly tracks.

Hard riding was not possible on this ridge crest, a fact
that gave Helen time to catch her breath.  At length, coming
out upon the very summit of the mountain, Dale heard the
hound.  Helen's eyes feasted afar upon a wild scene of rugged
grandeur, before she looked down on this western slope at
her feet to see bare, gradual descent, leading down to
sparsely wooded bench and on to deep-green canuon.

"Ride hard now!" yelled Dale.  "I see Bo, an' I'll have to
ride to catch her."

Dale spurred down the slope.  Helen rode in his tracks and,
though she plunged so fast that she felt her hair stand up
with fright, she saw him draw away from her.  Sometimes her
horse slid on his haunches for a few yards, and at these
hazardous moments she got her feet out of the stirrups so as
to fall free from him if he went down.  She let him choose
the way, while she gazed ahead at Dale, and then farther on,
in the hope of seeing Bo.  At last she was rewarded.  Far Down
the wooded bench she saw a gray flash of the little mustang
and a bright glint of Bo's hair.  Her heart swelled.  Dale
would soon overhaul Bo and come between her and peril.  And
on the instant, though Helen was unconscious of it then, a
remarkable change came over her spirit.  Fear left her.  And a
hot, exalting, incomprehensible something took possession of
her.

She let the horse run, and when he had plunged to the foot
of that slope of soft ground he broke out across the open
bench at a pace that made the wind bite Helen's cheeks and
roar in her ears.  She lost sight of Dale.  It gave her a
strange, grim exultance.  She bent her eager gaze to find the
tracks of his horse, and she found them.  Also she made out
the tracks of Bo's mustang and the bear and the hound.  Her
horse, scenting game, perhaps, and afraid to be left alone,
settled into a fleet and powerful stride, sailing over logs
and brush.  That open bench had looked short, but it was
long, and Helen rode down the gradual descent at breakneck
speed.  She would not be left behind.  She had awakened to a
heedlessness of risk.  Something burned steadily within her.
A grim, hard anger of joy!  When she saw, far down another
open, gradual descent, that Dale had passed Bo and that Bo
was riding the little mustang as never before, then Helen
flamed with a madness to catch her, to beat her in that
wonderful chase, to show her and Dale what there really was
in the depths of Helen Rayner.

Her ambition was to be short-lived, she divined from the lay
of the land ahead, but the ride she lived then for a flying
mile was something that would always blanch her cheeks and
prick her skin in remembrance.

The open ground was only too short.  That thundering pace
soon brought Helen's horse to the timber.  Here it took all
her strength to check his headlong flight over deadfalls and
between small jack-pines.  Helen lost sight of Bo, and she
realized it would take all her wits to keep from getting
lost.  She had to follow the trail, and in some places it was
hard to see from horseback.

Besides, her horse was mettlesome, thoroughly aroused, and
he wanted a free rein and his own way.  Helen tried that,
only to lose the trail and to get sundry knocks from trees
and branches.  She could not hear the hound, nor Dale.  The
pines were small, close together, and tough.  They were hard
to bend.  Helen hurt her hands, scratched her face, barked
her knees.  The horse formed a habit suddenly of deciding to
go the way he liked instead of the way Helen guided him, and
when he plunged between saplings too close to permit easy
passage it was exceedingly hard on her.  That did not make
any difference to Helen.  Once worked into a frenzy, her
blood stayed at high pressure.  She did not argue with
herself about a need of desperate hurry.  Even a blow on the
head that nearly blinded her did not in the least retard
her.  The horse could hardly be held, and not at all in the
few open places.

At last Helen reached another slope.  Coming out upon canuon
rim, she heard Dale's clear call, far down, and Bo's
answering peal, high and piercing, with its note of exultant
wildness.  Helen also heard the bear and the hound fighting
at the bottom of this canuon.

Here Helen again missed the tracks made by Dale and Bo.  The
descent looked impassable.  She rode back along the rim, then
forward.  Finally she found where the ground had been plowed
deep by hoofs, down over little banks.  Helen's horse balked
at these jumps.  When she goaded him over them she went
forward on his neck.  It seemed like riding straight
downhill.  The mad spirit of that chase grew more stingingly
keen to Helen as the obstacles grew.  Then, once more the bay
of the hound and the bawl of the bear made a demon of her
horse.  He snorted a shrill defiance.  He plunged with fore
hoofs in the air.  He slid and broke a way down the steep,
soft banks, through the thick brush and thick clusters of
saplings, sending loose rocks and earth into avalanches
ahead of him.  He fell over one bank, but a thicket of aspens
upheld him so that he rebounded and gained his feet.  The
sounds of fight ceased, but Dale's thrilling call floated up
on the pine-scented air.

Before Helen realized it she was at the foot of the slope,
in a narrow canuon-bed, full of rocks and trees, with a soft
roar of running water filling her ears.  Tracks were
everywhere, and when she came to the first open place she
saw where the grizzly had plunged off a sandy bar into the
water.  Here he had fought Pedro.  Signs of that battle were
easy to read.  Helen saw where his huge tracks, still wet,
led up the opposite sandy bank.

Then down-stream Helen did some more reckless and splendid
riding.  On level ground the horse was great.  Once he leaped
clear across the brook.  Every plunge, every turn Helen
expected to come upon Dale and Bo facing the bear.  The canuon
narrowed, the stream-bed deepened.  She had to slow down to
get through the trees and rocks.  Quite unexpectedly she rode
pell-mell upon Dale and Bo and the panting Pedro.  Her horse
plunged to a halt, answering the shrill neighs of the other
horses.

Dale gazed in admiring amazement at Helen.

"Say, did you meet the bear again?" he queried, blankly.

"No.  Didn't -- you -- kill him?" panted Helen, slowly
sagging in her saddle.

"He got away in the rocks.  Rough country down here."

Helen slid off her horse and fell with a little panting cry
of relief.  She saw that she was bloody, dirty, disheveled,
and wringing wet with perspiration.  Her riding habit was
torn into tatters.  Every muscle seemed to burn and sting,
and all her bones seemed broken.  But it was worth all this
to meet Dale's penetrating glance, to see Bo's utter,
incredulous astonishment.

"Nell -- Rayner!" gasped Bo.

"If -- my horse 'd been -- any good -- in the woods," panted
Helen, "I'd not lost -- so much time -- riding down this
mountain.  And I'd caught you -- beat you."

"Girl, did you RIDE down this last slope?" queried Dale.

"I sure did," replied Helen, smiling.

"We walked every step of the way, and was lucky to get down
at that," responded Dale, gravely.  "No horse should have
been ridden down there.  Why, he must have slid down."

"We slid -- yes.  But I stayed on him."

Bo's incredulity changed to wondering, speechless
admiration.  And Dale's rare smile changed his gravity.

"I'm sorry.  It was rash of me.  I thought you'd go back. . . .
But all's well that ends well. . . .  Helen, did you wake
up to-day?"

She dropped her eyes, not caring to meet the questioning
gaze upon her.

"Maybe -- a little," she replied, and she covered her face
with her hands.  Remembrance of his questions -- of his
assurance that she did not know the real meaning of life --
of her stubborn antagonism -- made her somehow ashamed.  But
it was not for long.

"The chase was great," she said.  "I did not know myself.  You
were right."

"In how many ways did you find me right?" he asked.

"I think all -- but one," she replied, with a laugh and a
shudder.  "I'm near starved NOW -- I was so furious at Bo
that I could have choked her.  I faced that horrible brute. . . .
Oh, I know what it is to fear death!  . . .  I was lost
twice on the ride -- absolutely lost.  That's all."

Bo found her tongue.  "The last thing was for you to fall
wildly in love, wasn't it?"

"According to Dale, I must add that to my new experiences of
to-day -- before I can know real life," replied Helen,
demurely.

The hunter turned away.  "Let us go," he said, soberly.



CHAPTER XIII

After more days of riding the grassy level of that
wonderfully gold and purple park, and dreamily listening by
day to the ever-low and ever-changing murmur of the
waterfall, and by night to the wild, lonely mourn of a
hunting wolf, and climbing to the dizzy heights where the
wind stung sweetly, Helen Rayner lost track of time and
forgot her peril.

Roy Beeman did not return.  If occasionally Dale mentioned
Roy and his quest, the girls had little to say beyond a
recurrent anxiety for the old uncle, and then they forgot
again.  Paradise Park, lived in a little while at that season
of the year, would have claimed any one, and ever afterward
haunted sleeping or waking dreams.

Bo gave up to the wild life, to the horses and rides, to the
many pets, and especially to the cougar, Tom.  The big cat
followed her everywhere, played with her, rolling and
pawing, kitten-like, and he would lay his massive head in
her lap to purr his content.  Bo had little fear of anything,
and here in the wilds she soon lost that.

Another of Dale's pets was a half-grown black bear named
Muss.  He was abnormally jealous of little Bud and he had a
well-developed hatred of Tom, otherwise he was a very
good-tempered bear, and enjoyed Dale's impartial regard.
Tom, however, chased Muss out of camp whenever Dale's back
was turned, and sometimes Muss stayed away, shifting for
himself.  With the advent of Bo, who spent a good deal of
time on the animals, Muss manifestly found the camp more
attractive.  Whereupon, Dale predicted trouble between Tom
and Muss.

Bo liked nothing better than a rough-and-tumble frolic with
the black bear.  Muss was not very big nor very heavy, and in
a wrestling bout with the strong and wiry girl he sometimes
came out second best.  It spoke well of him that he seemed to
be careful not to hurt Bo.  He never bit or scratched, though
he sometimes gave her sounding slaps with his paws.
Whereupon, Bo would clench her gauntleted fists and sail
into him in earnest.

One afternoon before the early supper they always had, Dale
and Helen were watching Bo teasing the bear.  She was in her
most vixenish mood, full of life and fight.  Tom lay his long
length on the grass, watching with narrow, gleaming eyes.

When Bo and Muss locked in an embrace and went down to roll
over and over, Dale called Helen's attention to the cougar.

"Tom's jealous.  It's strange how animals are like people.
Pretty soon I'll have to corral Muss, or there'll be a
fight."

Helen could not see anything wrong with Tom except that he
did not look playful.

During supper-time both bear and cougar disappeared, though
this was not remarked until afterward.  Dale whistled and
called, but the rival pets did not return.  Next morning Tom
was there, curled up snugly at the foot of Bo's bed, and
when she arose he followed her around as usual.  But Muss did
not return.

The circumstance made Dale anxious.  He left camp, taking Tom
with him, and upon returning stated that he had followed
Muss's track as far as possible, and then had tried to put
Tom on the trail, but the cougar would not or could not
follow it.  Dale said Tom never liked a bear trail, anyway,
cougars and bears being common enemies.  So, whether by
accident or design, Bo lost one of her playmates.

The hunter searched some of the slopes next day and even
went up on one of the mountains.  He did not discover any
sign of Muss, but he said he had found something else.

"Bo you girls want some more real excitement?" he asked.

Helen smiled her acquiescence and Bo replied with one of her
forceful speeches.

"Don't mind bein' good an' scared?" he went on.

"You can't scare me," bantered Bo.  But Helen looked
doubtful.

"Up in one of the parks I ran across one of my horses -- a
lame bay you haven't seen.  Well, he had been killed by that
old silvertip.  The one we chased.  Hadn't been dead over an
hour.  Blood was still runnin' an' only a little meat eaten.
That bear heard me or saw me an' made off into the woods.
But he'll come back to-night.  I'm goin' up there, lay for
him, an' kill him this time.  Reckon you'd better go, because
I don't want to leave you here alone at night."

"Are you going to take Tom?" asked Bo.

"No.  The bear might get his scent.  An', besides, Tom ain't
reliable on bears.  I'll leave Pedro home, too."

When they had hurried supper, and Dale had gotten in the
horses, the sun had set and the valley was shadowing low
down, while the ramparts were still golden.  The long zigzag
trail Dale followed up the slope took nearly an hour to
climb, so that when that was surmounted and he led out of
the woods twilight had fallen.  A rolling park extended as
far as Helen could see, bordered by forest that in places
sent out straggling stretches of trees.  Here and there, like
islands, were isolated patches of timber.

At ten thousand feet elevation the twilight of this clear
and cold night was a rich and rare atmospheric effect.  It
looked as if it was seen through perfectly clear smoked
glass.  Objects were singularly visible, even at long range,
and seemed magnified.  In the west, where the afterglow of
sunset lingered over the dark, ragged, spruce-speared
horizon-line, there was such a transparent golden line
melting into vivid star-fired blue that Helen could only
gaze and gaze in wondering admiration.

Dale spurred his horse into a lope and the spirited mounts
of the girls kept up with him.  The ground was rough, with
tufts of grass growing close together, yet the horses did
not stumble.  Their action and snorting betrayed excitement.
Dale led around several clumps of timber, up a long grassy
swale, and then straight westward across an open flat toward
where the dark-fringed forest-line raised itself wild and
clear against the cold sky.  The horses went swiftly, and the
wind cut like a blade of ice.  Helen could barely get her
breath and she panted as if she had just climbed a laborsome
hill.  The stars began to blink out of the blue, and the gold
paled somewhat, and yet twilight lingered.  It seemed long
across that flat, but really was short.  Coming to a thin
line of trees that led down over a slope to a deeper but
still isolated patch of woods, Dale dismounted and tied his
horse.  When the girls got off he haltered their horses also.

"Stick close to me an' put your feet down easy," he
whispered.  How tall and dark he loomed in the fading light!
Helen thrilled, as she had often of late, at the strange,
potential force of the man.  Stepping softly, without the
least sound, Dale entered this straggly bit of woods, which
appeared to have narrow byways and nooks.  Then presently he
came to the top of a well-wooded slope, dark as pitch,
apparently.  But as Helen followed she perceived the trees,
and they were thin dwarf spruce, partly dead.  The slope was
soft and springy, easy to step upon without noise.  Dale went
so cautiously that Helen could not hear him, and sometimes
in the gloom she could not see him.  Then the chill thrills
ran over her.  Bo kept holding on to Helen, which fact
hampered Helen as well as worked somewhat to disprove Bo's
boast.  At last level ground was reached.  Helen made out a
light-gray background crossed by black bars.  Another glance
showed this to be the dark tree-trunks against the open
park.

Dale halted, and with a touch brought Helen to a straining
pause.  He was listening.  It seemed wonderful to watch him
bend his head and stand as silent and motionless as one of
the dark trees.

"He's not there yet," Dale whispered, and he stepped forward
very slowly.  Helen and Bo began to come up against thin dead
branches that were invisible and then cracked.  Then Dale
knelt down, seemed to melt into the ground.

"You'll have to crawl," he whispered.

How strange and thrilling that was for Helen, and hard work!
The ground bore twigs and dead branches, which had to be
carefully crawled over; and lying flat, as was necessary, it
took prodigious effort to drag her body inch by inch.  Like a
huge snake, Dale wormed his way along.

Gradually the wood lightened.  They were nearing the edge of
the park.  Helen now saw a strip of open with a high, black
wall of spruce beyond.  The afterglow flashed or changed,
like a dimming northern light, and then failed.  Dale crawled
on farther to halt at length between two tree-trunks at the
edge of the wood.

"Come up beside me," he whispered.

Helen crawled on, and presently Bo was beside her panting,
with pale face and great, staring eyes, plain to be seen in
the wan light.

"Moon's comin' up.  We're just in time.  The old grizzly's not
there yet, but I see coyotes.  Look."

Dale pointed across the open neck of park to a dim blurred
patch standing apart some little distance from the black
wall.

"That's the dead horse," whispered Dale.  "An' if you watch
close you can see the coyotes.  They're gray an' they move. . . .
Can't you hear them?"

Helen's excited ears, so full of throbs and imaginings,
presently registered low snaps and snarls.  Bo gave her arm a
squeeze.

"I hear them.  They're fighting.  Oh, gee!" she panted, and
drew a long, full breath of unutterable excitement.

"Keep quiet now an' watch an' listen," said the hunter.

Slowly the black, ragged forest-line seemed to grow blacker
and lift; slowly the gray neck of park lightened under some
invisible influence; slowly the stars paled and the sky
filled over.  Somewhere the moon was rising.  And slowly that
vague blurred patch grew a little clearer.

Through the tips of the spruce, now seen to be rather close
at hand, shone a slender, silver crescent moon, darkening,
hiding, shining again, climbing until its exquisite
sickle-point topped the trees, and then, magically, it
cleared them, radiant and cold.  While the eastern black wall
shaded still blacker, the park blanched and the border-line
opposite began to stand out as trees.

"Look!  Look!" cried Bo, very low and fearfully, as she
pointed.

"Not so loud," whispered Dale.

"But I see something!"

"Keep quiet," he admonished.

Helen, in the direction Bo pointed, could not see anything
but moon-blanched bare ground, rising close at hand to a
little ridge.

"Lie still," whispered Dale.  "I'm goin' to crawl around to
get a look from another angle.  I'll be right back."

He moved noiselessly backward and disappeared.  With him
gone, Helen felt a palpitating of her heart and a prickling
of her skin.

"Oh, my!  Nell!  Look!" whispered Bo, in fright.  "I know I saw
something."

On top of the little ridge a round object moved slowly,
getting farther out into the light.  Helen watched with
suspended breath.  It moved out to be silhouetted against the
sky -- apparently a huge, round, bristling animal, frosty in
color.  One instant it seemed huge -- the next small -- then
close at hand -- and far away.  It swerved to come directly
toward them.  Suddenly Helen realized that the beast was not
a dozen yards distant.  She was just beginning a new
experience -- a real and horrifying terror in which her
blood curdled, her heart gave a tremendous leap and then
stood still, and she wanted to fly, but was rooted to the
spot -- when Dale returned to her side.

"That's a pesky porcupine," he whispered.  "Almost crawled
over you.  He sure would have stuck you full of quills."

Whereupon he threw a stick at the animal.  It bounced
straight up to turn round with startling quickness, and it
gave forth a rattling sound; then it crawled out of sight.

"Por -- cu -- pine!" whispered Bo, pantingly.  "It might --
as well -- have been -- an elephant!"

Helen uttered a long, eloquent sigh.  She would not have
cared to describe her emotions at sight of a harmless
hedgehog.

"Listen!" warned Dale, very low.  His big hand closed over
Helen's gauntleted one.  "There you have -- the real cry of
the wild."

Sharp and cold on the night air split the cry of a wolf,
distant, yet wonderfully distinct.  How wild and mournful and
hungry!  How marvelously pure!  Helen shuddered through all
her frame with the thrill of its music, the wild and
unutterable and deep emotions it aroused.  Again a sound of
this forest had pierced beyond her life, back into the dim
remote past from which she had come.

The cry was not repeated.  The coyotes were still.  And
silence fell, absolutely unbroken.

Dale nudged Helen, and then reached over to give Bo a tap.
He was peering keenly ahead and his strained intensity could
be felt.  Helen looked with all her might and she saw the
shadowy gray forms of the coyotes skulk away, out of the
moonlight into the gloom of the woods, where they
disappeared.  Not only Dale's intensity, but the very
silence, the wildness of the moment and place, seemed
fraught with wonderful potency.  Bo must have felt it, too,
for she was trembling all over, and holding tightly to
Helen, and breathing quick and fast.

"A-huh!" muttered Dale, under his breath.

Helen caught the relief and certainty in his exclamation,
and she divined, then, something of what the moment must
have been to a hunter.

Then her roving, alert glance was arrested by a looming gray
shadow coming out of the forest.  It moved, but surely that
huge thing could not be a bear.  It passed out of gloom into
silver moonlight.  Helen's heart bounded.  For it was a great
frosty-coated bear lumbering along toward the dead horse.
Instinctively Helen's hand sought the arm of the hunter.  It
felt like iron under a rippling surface.  The touch eased
away the oppression over her lungs, the tightness of her
throat.  What must have been fear left her, and only a
powerful excitement remained.  A sharp expulsion of breath
from Bo and a violent jerk of her frame were signs that she
had sighted the grizzly.

In the moonlight he looked of immense size, and that wild
park with the gloomy blackness of forest furnished a fit
setting for him.  Helen's quick mind, so taken up with
emotion, still had a thought for the wonder and the meaning
of that scene.  She wanted the bear killed, yet that seemed a
pity.

He had a wagging, rolling, slow walk which took several
moments to reach his quarry.  When at length he reached it he
walked around with sniffs plainly heard and then a cross
growl.  Evidently he had discovered that his meal had been
messed over.  As a whole the big bear could be seen
distinctly, but only in outline and color.  The distance was
perhaps two hundred yards.  Then it looked as if he had begun
to tug at the carcass.  Indeed, he was dragging it, very
slowly, but surely.

"Look at that!" whispered Dale.  "If he ain't strong!  . . .
Reckon I'll have to stop him."

The grizzly, however, stopped of his own accord, just
outside of the shadow-line of the forest.  Then he hunched in
a big frosty heap over his prey and began to tear and rend.

"Jess was a mighty good horse," muttered Dale, grimly; "too
good to make a meal for a hog silvertip."

Then the hunter silently rose to a kneeling position,
swinging the rifle in front of him.  He glanced up into the
low branches of the tree overhead.

"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 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.



CHAPTER XV

Dale stood with face and arm upraised, and he watched Helen
ride off the ledge to disappear in the forest.  That vast
spruce slope seemed to have swallowed her.  She was gone!
Slowly Dale lowered his arm with gesture expressive of a
strange finality, an eloquent despair, of which he was
unconscious.

He turned to the park, to his camp, and the many duties of a
hunter.  The park did not seem the same, nor his home, nor
his work.

"I reckon this feelin's natural," he soliloquized,
resignedly, "but it's sure queer for me.  That's what comes
of makin' friends.  Nell an' Bo, now, they made a difference,
an' a difference I never knew before."

He calculated that this difference had been simply one of
responsibility, and then the charm and liveliness of the
companionship of girls, and finally friendship.  These would
pass now that the causes were removed.

Before he had worked an hour around camp he realized a
change had come, but it was not the one anticipated.  Always
before he had put his mind on his tasks, whatever they might
be; now he worked while his thoughts were strangely
involved.

The little bear cub whined at his heels; the tame deer
seemed to regard him with deep, questioning eyes, the big
cougar padded softly here and there as if searching for
something.

"You all miss them -- now -- I reckon," said Dale.  "Well,
they're gone an' you'll have to get along with me."

Some vague approach to irritation with his pets surprised
him.  Presently he grew both irritated and surprised with
himself -- a state of mind totally unfamiliar.  Several
times, as old habit brought momentary abstraction, he found
himself suddenly looking around for Helen and Bo.  And each
time the shock grew stronger.  They were gone, but their
presence lingered.  After his camp chores were completed he
went over to pull down the lean-to which the girls had
utilized as a tent.  The spruce boughs had dried out brown
and sear; the wind had blown the roof awry; the sides were
leaning in.  As there was now no further use for this little
habitation, he might better pull it down.  Dale did not
acknowledge that his gaze had involuntarily wandered toward
it many times.  Therefore he strode over with the intention
of destroying it.

For the first time since Roy and he had built the lean-to he
stepped inside.  Nothing was more certain than the fact that
he experienced a strange sensation, perfectly
incomprehensible to him.  The blankets lay there on the
spruce boughs, disarranged and thrown back by hurried hands,
yet still holding something of round folds where the slender
forms had nestled.  A black scarf often worn by Bo lay
covering the pillow of pine-needles; a red ribbon that Helen
had worn on her hair hung from a twig.  These articles were
all that had been forgotten.  Dale gazed at them attentively,
then at the blankets, and all around the fragrant little
shelter; and he stepped outside with an uncomfortable
knowledge that he could not destroy the place where Helen
and Bo had spent so many hours.

Whereupon, in studious mood, Dale took up his rifle and
strode out to hunt.  His winter supply of venison had not yet
been laid in.  Action suited his mood; he climbed far and
passed by many a watching buck to slay which seemed murder;
at last he jumped one that was wild and bounded away.  This
he shot, and set himself a Herculean task in packing the
whole carcass back to camp.  Burdened thus, he staggered
under the trees, sweating freely, many times laboring for
breath, aching with toil, until at last he had reached camp.
There he slid the deer carcass off his shoulders, and,
standing over it, he gazed down while his breast labored.  It
was one of the finest young bucks he had ever seen.  But
neither in stalking it, nor making a wonderful shot, nor in
packing home a weight that would have burdened two men, nor
in gazing down at his beautiful quarry, did Dale experience
any of the old joy of the hunter.

"I'm a little off my feed," he mused, as he wiped sweat from
his heated face.  "Maybe a little dotty, as I called Al.  But
that'll pass."

Whatever his state, it did not pass.  As of old, after a long
day's hunt, he reclined beside the camp-fire and watched the
golden sunset glows change on the ramparts; as of old he
laid a hand on the soft, furry head of the pet cougar; as of
old he watched the gold change to red and then to dark, and
twilight fall like a blanket; as of old he listened to the
dreamy, lulling murmur of the water fall.  The old familiar
beauty, wildness, silence, and loneliness were there, but
the old content seemed strangely gone.

Soberly he confessed then that he missed the happy company
of the girls.  He did not distinguish Helen from Bo in his
slow introspection.  When he sought his bed he did not at
once fall to sleep.  Always, after a few moments of
wakefulness, while the silence settled down or the wind
moaned through the pines, he had fallen asleep.  This night
he found different.  Though he was tired, sleep would not
soon come.  The wilderness, the mountains, the park, the camp
-- all seemed to have lost something.  Even the darkness
seemed empty.  And when at length Dale fell asleep it was to
be troubled by restless dreams.

Up with the keen-edged, steely-bright dawn, he went at the
his tasks with the springy stride of the deer-stalker.

At the end of that strenuous day, which was singularly full
of the old excitement and action and danger, and of new
observations, he was bound to confess that no longer did the
chase suffice for him.

Many times on the heights that day, with the wind keen in
his face, and the vast green billows of spruce below him, he
had found that he was gazing without seeing, halting without
object, dreaming as he had never dreamed before.

Once, when a magnificent elk came out upon a rocky ridge
and, whistling a challenge to invisible rivals, stood there
a target to stir any hunter's pulse, Dale did not even raise
his rifle.  Into his ear just then rang Helen's voice: "Milt
Dale, you are no Indian.  Giving yourself to a hunter's
wildlife is selfish.  It is wrong.  You love this lonely life,
but it is not work.  Work that does not help others is not a
real man's work."

From that moment conscience tormented him.  It was not what
he loved, but what he ought to do, that counted in the sum
of good achieved in the world.  Old Al Auchincloss had been
right.  Dale was wasting strength and intelligence that
should go to do his share in the development of the West.
Now that he had reached maturity, if through his knowledge
of nature's law he had come to see the meaning of the strife
of men for existence, for place, for possession, and to hold
them in contempt, that was no reason why he should keep
himself aloof from them, from some work that was needed in
an incomprehensible world.

Dale did not hate work, but he loved freedom.  To be alone,
to live with nature, to feel the elements, to labor and
dream and idle and climb and sleep unhampered by duty, by
worry, by restriction, by the petty interests of men -- this
had always been his ideal of living.  Cowboys, riders,
sheep-herders, farmers -- these toiled on from one place and
one job to another for the little money doled out to them.
Nothing beautiful, nothing significant had ever existed in
that for him.  He had worked as a boy at every kind of
range-work, and of all that humdrum waste of effort he had
liked sawing wood best.  Once he had quit a job of branding
cattle because the smell of burning hide, the bawl of the
terrified calf, had sickened him.  If men were honest there
would be no need to scar cattle.  He had never in the least
desired to own land and droves of stock, and make deals with
ranchmen, deals advantageous to himself.  Why should a man
want to make a deal or trade a horse or do a piece of work
to another man's disadvantage?  Self-preservation was the
first law of life.  But as the plants and trees and birds and
beasts interpreted that law, merciless and inevitable as
they were, they had neither greed nor dishonesty.  They lived
by the grand rule of what was best for the greatest number.

But Dale's philosophy, cold and clear and inevitable, like
nature itself, began to be pierced by the human appeal in
Helen Rayner's words.  What did she mean?  Not that he should
lose his love of the wilderness, but that he realize
himself!  Many chance words of that girl had depth.  He was
young, strong, intelligent, free from taint of disease or
the fever of drink.  He could do something for others.  Who?
If that mattered, there, for instance, was poor old Mrs.
Cass, aged and lame now; there was Al Auchincloss, dying in
his boots, afraid of enemies, and wistful for his blood and
his property to receive the fruit of his labors; there were
the two girls, Helen and Bo, new and strange to the West,
about to be confronted by a big problem of ranch life and
rival interests.  Dale thought of still more people in the
little village of Pine -- of others who had failed, whose
lives were hard, who could have been made happier by
kindness and assistance.

What, then, was the duty of Milt Dale to himself?  Because
men preyed on one another and on the weak, should he turn
his back upon a so-called civilization or should he grow
like them?  Clear as a bell came the answer that his duty was
to do neither.  And then he saw how the little village of
Pine, as well as the whole world, needed men like him.  He
had gone to nature, to the forest, to the wilderness for his
development; and all the judgments and efforts of his future
would be a result of that education.

Thus Dale, lying in the darkness and silence of his lonely
park, arrived at a conclusion that he divined was but the
beginning of a struggle.

It took long introspection to determine the exact nature of
that struggle, but at length it evolved into the paradox
that Helen Rayner had opened his eyes to his duty as a man,
that he accepted it, yet found a strange obstacle in the
perplexing, tumultuous, sweet fear of ever going near her
again.

Suddenly, then, all his thought revolved around the girl,
and, thrown off his balance, he weltered in a wilderness of
unfamiliar strange ideas.

When he awoke next day the fight was on in earnest.  In his
sleep his mind had been active.  The idea that greeted him,
beautiful as the sunrise, flashed in memory of Auchincloss's
significant words, "Take your chance with the girl!"

The old rancher was in his dotage.  He hinted of things
beyond the range of possibility.  That idea of a chance for
Dale remained before his consciousness only an instant.
Stars were unattainable; life could not be fathomed; the
secret of nature did not abide alone on the earth -- these
theories were not any more impossible of proving than that
Helen Rayner might be for him.

Nevertheless, her strange coming into his life had played
havoc, the extent of which he had only begun to realize.


For a month he tramped through the forest.  It was October, a
still golden, fulfilling season of the year; and everywhere
in the vast dark green a glorious blaze of oak and aspen
made beautiful contrast.  He carried his rifle, but he never
used it.  He would climb miles and go this way and that with
no object in view.  Yet his eye and ear had never been
keener.  Hours he would spend on a promontory, watching the
distance, where the golden patches of aspen shone bright out
of dark-green mountain slopes.  He loved to fling himself
down in an aspen-grove at the edge of a senaca, and there
lie in that radiance like a veil of gold and purple and red,
with the white tree-trunks striping the shade.  Always,
whether there were breeze or not, the aspen-leaves quivered,
ceaselessly, wonderfully, like his pulses, beyond his
control.  Often he reclined against a mossy rock beside a
mountain stream to listen, to watch, to feel all that was
there, while his mind held a haunting, dark-eyed vision of a
girl.  On the lonely heights, like an eagle, he sat gazing
down into Paradise Park, that was more and more beautiful,
but would never again be the same, never fill him with
content, never be all and all to him.

Late in October the first snow fell.  It melted at once on
the south side of the park, but the north slopes and the
rims and domes above stayed white.

Dale had worked quick and hard at curing and storing his
winter supply of food, and now he spent days chopping and
splitting wood to burn during the months he would be
snowed-in.  He watched for the dark-gray, fast-scudding
storm-clouds, and welcomed them when they came.  Once there
lay ten feet of snow on the trails he would be snowed-in
until spring.  It would be impossible to go down to Pine.  And
perhaps during the long winter he would be cured of this
strange, nameless disorder of his feelings.

November brought storms up on the peaks.  Flurries of snow
fell in the park every day, but the sunny south side, where
Dale's camp lay, retained its autumnal color and warmth.  Not
till late in winter did the snow creep over this secluded
nook.

The morning came at last, piercingly keen and bright, when
Dale saw that the heights were impassable; the realization
brought him a poignant regret.  He had not guessed how he had
wanted to see Helen Rayner again until it was too late.  That
opened his eyes.  A raging frenzy of action followed, in
which he only tired himself physically without helping
himself spiritually.

It was sunset when he faced the west, looking up at the pink
snow-domes and the dark-golden fringe of spruce, and in that
moment he found the truth.

"I love that girl!  I love that girl!" he spoke aloud, to the
distant white peaks, to the winds, to the loneliness and
silence of his prison, to the great pines and to the
murmuring stream, and to his faithful pets.  It was his
tragic confession of weakness, of amazing truth, of hopeless
position, of pitiful excuse for the transformation wrought
in him.

Dale's struggle ended there when he faced his soul.  To
understand himself was to be released from strain, worry,
ceaseless importuning doubt and wonder and fear.  But the
fever of unrest, of uncertainty, had been nothing compared
to a sudden upflashing torment of love.

With somber deliberation he set about the tasks needful, and
others that he might make -- his camp-fires and meals, the
care of his pets and horses, the mending of saddles and
pack-harness, the curing of buckskin for moccasins and
hunting-suits.  So his days were not idle.  But all this work
was habit for him and needed no application of mind.

And Dale, like some men of lonely wilderness lives who did
not retrograde toward the savage, was a thinker.  Love made
him a sufferer.

The surprise and shame of his unconscious surrender, the
certain hopelessness of it, the long years of communion with
all that was wild, lonely, and beautiful, the wonderfully
developed insight into nature's secrets, and the
sudden-dawning revelation that he was no omniscient being
exempt from the ruthless ordinary destiny of man -- all
these showed him the strength of his manhood and of his
passion, and that the life he had chosen was of all lives
the one calculated to make love sad and terrible.

Helen Rayner haunted him.  In the sunlight there was not a
place around camp which did not picture her lithe, vigorous
body, her dark, thoughtful eyes, her eloquent, resolute
lips, and the smile that was so sweet and strong.  At night
she was there like a slender specter, pacing beside him
under the moaning pines.  Every camp-fire held in its heart
the glowing white radiance of her spirit.

Nature had taught Dale to love solitude and silence, but
love itself taught him their meaning.  Solitude had been
created for the eagle on his crag, for the blasted mountain
fir, lonely and gnarled on its peak, for the elk and the
wolf.  But it had not been intended for man.  And to live
always in the silence of wild places was to become obsessed
with self -- to think and dream -- to be happy, which state,
however pursued by man, was not good for him.  Man must be
given imperious longings for the unattainable.

It needed, then, only the memory of an unattainable woman to
render solitude passionately desired by a man, yet almost
unendurable.  Dale was alone with his secret; and every pine,
everything in that park saw him shaken and undone.

In the dark, pitchy deadness of night, when there was no
wind and the cold on the peaks had frozen the waterfall,
then the silence seemed insupportable.  Many hours that
should have been given to slumber were paced out under the
cold, white, pitiless stars, under the lonely pines.

Dale's memory betrayed him, mocked his restraint, cheated
him of any peace; and his imagination, sharpened by love,
created pictures, fancies, feelings, that drove him frantic.

He thought of Helen Rayner's strong, shapely brown hand.  In
a thousand different actions it haunted him.  How quick and
deft in camp-fire tasks!  how graceful and swift as she
plaited her dark hair!  how tender and skilful in its
ministration when one of his pets had been injured!  how
eloquent when pressed tight against her breast in a moment
of fear on the dangerous heights!  how expressive of
unutterable things when laid on his arm!

Dale saw that beautiful hand slowly creep up his arm, across
his shoulder, and slide round his neck to clasp there.  He
was powerless to inhibit the picture.  And what he felt then
was boundless, unutterable.  No woman had ever yet so much as
clasped his hand, and heretofore no such imaginings had ever
crossed his mind, yet deep in him, somewhere hidden, had
been this waiting, sweet, and imperious need.  In the bright
day he appeared to ward off such fancies, but at night he
was helpless.  And every fancy left him weaker, wilder.

When, at the culmination of this phase of his passion, Dale,
who had never known the touch of a woman's lips, suddenly
yielded to the illusion of Helen Rayner's kisses, he found
himself quite mad, filled with rapture and despair, loving
her as he hated himself.  It seemed as if he had experienced
all these terrible feelings in some former life and had
forgotten them in this life.  He had no right to think of
her, but he could not resist it.  Imagining the sweet
surrender of her lips was a sacrilege, yet here, in spite of
will and honor and shame, he was lost.

Dale, at length, was vanquished, and he ceased to rail at
himself, or restrain his fancies.  He became a dreamy,
sad-eyed, camp-fire gazer, like many another lonely man,
separated, by chance or error, from what the heart hungered
most for.  But this great experience, when all its
significance had clarified in his mind, immeasurably
broadened his understanding of the principles of nature
applied to life.

Love had been in him stronger than in most men, because of
his keen, vigorous, lonely years in the forest, where health
of mind and body were intensified and preserved.  How simple,
how natural, how inevitable!  He might have loved any
fine-spirited, healthy-bodied girl.  Like a tree shooting its
branches and leaves, its whole entity, toward the sunlight,
so had he grown toward a woman's love.  Why?  Because the
thing he revered in nature, the spirit, the universal, the
life that was God, had created at his birth or before his
birth the three tremendous instincts of nature -- to fight
for life, to feed himself, to reproduce his kind.  That was
all there was to it.  But oh!  the mystery, the beauty, the
torment, and the terror of this third instinct -- this
hunger for the sweetness and the glory of a woman's love!



CHAPTER XVI

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."



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 some one'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.

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
inclosure 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 thet'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 whom 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 thet happen.  Four or five years ago
Beasley rode some greasers off their farms an' no one ever
knowed if he had a just claim."

"Beasley has no claim on my property.  My uncle solemnly
swore that on his death-bed.  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 an' effect, as Milt Dale 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 Dale an' John get here in time I reckon we can
bluff thet 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 Dale 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 Dale -- 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' Dale'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 Dale's pard, these many years.  An'
I care a powerful sight for you an' 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 Dale's love had magnified her emotion 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.  Them 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 Dale
loved her -- to hear it spoken frankly, earnestly, by Dale'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 bad been white.  The snow was melting fast.
Dale 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, nor 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 Maria, 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, thet'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 nervous to-day.  Has anythin' 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 orful 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; her sombrero was gone and her hair undone; there were
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.  "Well,
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 band, 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.

"I rode out the south range -- as I was told," began Bo,
breathing hard and trying to control her feelings.  "That's
the ride you usually take, Nell, and you bet -- if you'd
taken it to-day -- you'd not be here now. . . .  About three
miles out I climbed off the range up that cedar slope.  I
always keep to high ground.  When I got up I saw two horsemen
ride out of some broken rocks off to the east.  They rode as
if to come between me and home.  I didn't like that.  I
circled south.  About a mile farther on I spied another
horseman and he showed up directly in front of me and came
along slow.  That I liked still less.  It might have been
accident, but it looked to me as if those riders had some
intent.  All I could do was head off to the southeast and
ride.  You bet I did ride.  But I got into rough ground where
I'd never been before.  It was slow going.  At last I made the
cedars and here I cut loose, believing I could circle ahead
of those strange riders and come round through Pine.  I had
it wrong."

Here she hesitated, perhaps for breath, for she had spoken
rapidly, or perhaps to get better hold on her subject.  Not
improbably the effect she was creating on her listeners
began to be significant.  Roy sat absorbed, perfectly
motionless, eyes keen as steel, his mouth open.  Carmichael
was gazing over Bo's head, out of the window, and it seemed
that he must know the rest of her narrative.  Helen knew that
her own wide-eyed attention alone would have been
all-compelling inspiration to Bo Rayner.

"Sure I had it wrong," resumed Bo.  "Pretty soon heard a
horse behind.  I looked back.  I saw a big bay riding down on
me.  Oh, but he was running!  He just tore through the cedars.
. . .  I was scared half out of my senses.  But I spurred and
beat my mustang.  Then began a race!  Rough going -- thick
cedars -- washes and gullies I had to make him run -- to
keep my saddle -- to pick my way.  Oh-h-h!  but it was
glorious!  To race for fun -- that's one thing; to race for
your life is another!  My heart was in my mouth -- choking
me.  I couldn't have yelled.  I was as cold as ice -- dizzy
sometimes -- blind others -- then my stomach turned -- and I
couldn't get my breath.  Yet the wild thrills I had!  . . .
But I stuck on and held my own for several miles -- to the
edge of the cedars.  There the big horse gained on me.  He
came pounding closer -- perhaps as close as a hundred yards
-- I could hear him plain enough.  Then I had my spill.  Oh,
my mustang tripped -- threw me 'way over his head.  I hit
light, but slid far -- and that's what scraped me so.  I know
my knee is raw. . . .  When I got to my feet the big horse
dashed up, throwing gravel all over me -- and his rider
jumped off. . . .  Now who do you think he was?"

Helen knew, but she did not voice her conviction.  Carmichael
knew positively, yet he kept silent.  Roy was smiling, as if
the narrative told did not seem so alarming to him.

"Wal, the fact of you bein' here, safe an' sound, sorta
makes no difference who thet son-of-a-gun was," he said.

"Riggs!  Harve Riggs!" blazed Bo.  "The instant I recognized
him I got over my scare.  And so mad I burned all through
like fire.  I don't know what I said, but it was wild -- and
it was a whole lot, you bet.

"You sure can ride,' he said.

"I demanded why he had dared to chase me, and he said he had
an important message for Nell.  This was it: 'Tell your
sister that Beasley means to put her off an' take the ranch.
If she'll marry me I'll block his deal.  If she won't marry
me, I'll go in with Beasley.' Then he told me to hurry home
and not to breathe a word to any one except Nell.  Well, here
I am -- and I seem to have been breathing rather fast."

She looked from Helen to Roy and from Roy to Las Vegas.  Her
smile was for the latter, and to any one not overexcited by
her story that smile would have told volumes.

"Wal, I'll be doggoned!" ejaculated Roy, feelingly.

Helen laughed.

"Indeed, the working of that man's mind is beyond me. . . .
Marry him to save my ranch?  I wouldn't marry him to save my
life!"

Carmichael suddenly broke his silence.

"Bo, did you see the other men?"

"Yes.  I was coming to that," she replied.  "I caught a
glimpse of them back in the cedars.  The three were together,
or, at least, three horsemen were there.  They had halted
behind some trees.  Then on the way home I began to think.
Even in my fury I had received impressions.  Riggs was
SURPRISED when I got up.  I'll bet he had not expected me to
be who I was.  He thought I was NELL!  . . .  I look bigger in
this buckskin outfit.  My hair was up till I lost my hat, and
that was when I had the tumble.  He took me for Nell.  Another
thing, I remember -- he made some sign -- some motion while
I was calling him names, and I believe that was to keep
those other men back. . . .  I believe Riggs had a plan with
those other men to waylay Nell and make off with her.  I
absolutely know it."

"Bo, you're so -- so -- you jump at wild ideas so,"
protested Helen, trying to believe in her own assurance.  But
inwardly she was trembling.

"Miss Helen, that ain't a wild idee," said Roy, seriously.
"I reckon your sister is pretty close on the trail.  Las
Vegas, don't you savvy it thet way?"

Carmichael's answer was to stalk out of the room.

"Call him back!" cried Helen, apprehensively.

"Hold on, boy!" called Roy, sharply.

Helen reached the door simultaneously with Roy.  The cowboy
picked up his sombrero, jammed it on his head, gave his belt
a vicious hitch that made the gun-sheath jump, and then in
one giant step he was astride Ranger.

"Carmichael!  Stay!" cried Helen.

The cowboy spurred the black, and the stones rang under
iron-shod hoofs.

"Bo!  Call him back!  Please call him back!" importuned Helen,
in distress.

"I won't," declared Bo Rayner.  Her face shone whiter now and
her eyes were like fiery flint.  That was her answer to a
loving, gentle-hearted sister; that was her answer to the
call of the West.

"No use," said Roy, quietly.  "An' I reckon I'd better trail
him up."

He, too, strode out and, mounting his horse, galloped
swiftly away.


It turned out that Bo, was more bruised and scraped and
shaken than she had imagined.  One knee was rather badly cut,
which injury alone would have kept her from riding again
very soon.  Helen, who was somewhat skilled at bandaging
wounds, worried a great deal over these sundry blotches on
Bo's fair skin, and it took considerable time to wash and
dress them.  Long after this was done, and during the early
supper, and afterward, Bo's excitement remained unabated.
The whiteness stayed on her face and the blaze in her eyes.
Helen ordered and begged her to go to bed, for the fact was
Bo could not stand up and her hands shook.

"Go to bed?  Not much," she said.  "I want to know what he
does to Riggs."

It was that possibility which had Helen in dreadful
suspense.  If Carmichael killed Riggs, it seemed to Helen
that the bottom would drop out of this structure of Western
life she had begun to build so earnestly and fearfully.  She
did not believe that he would do so.  But the uncertainty was
torturing.

"Dear Bo," appealed Helen, "you don't want -- Oh!  you do
want Carmichael to -- to kill Riggs?"

"No, I don't, but I wouldn't care if he did," replied Bo,
bluntly.

"Do you think -- he will?"

"Nell, if that cowboy really loves me he read my mind right
here before he left," declared Bo.  "And he knew what I
thought he'd do."

"And what's -- that?" faltered Helen.

"I want him to round Riggs up down in the village --
somewhere in a crowd.  I want Riggs shown up as the coward,
braggart, four-flush that he is.  And insulted, slapped,
kicked -- driven out of Pine!"

Her passionate speech still rang throughout the room when
there came footsteps on the porch.  Helen hurried to raise
the bar from the door and open it just as a tap sounded on
the door-post.  Roy's face stood white out of the darkness.
His eyes were bright.  And his smile made Helen's fearful
query needless.

"How are you-all this evenin'?" he drawled, as he came in.

A fire blazed on the hearth and a lamp burned on the table.
By their light Bo looked white and eager-eyed as she
reclined in the big arm-chair.

"What 'd he do?" she asked, with all her amazing force.

"Wal, now, ain't you goin' to tell me how you are?"

"Roy, I'm all bunged up.  I ought to be in bed, but I just
couldn't sleep till I hear what Las Vegas did.  I'd forgive
anything except him getting drunk."

"Wal, I shore can ease your mind on thet," replied Roy.  "He
never drank a drop."

Roy was distractingly slow about beginning the tale any
child could have guessed he was eager to tell.  For once the
hard, intent quietness, the soul of labor, pain, and
endurance so plain in his face was softened by pleasurable
emotion.  He poked at the burning logs with the toe of his
boot.  Helen observed that he had changed his boots and now
wore no spurs.  Then he had gone to his quarters after
whatever had happened down in Pine.

"Where IS he?" asked Bo.

"Who?  Riggs?  Wal, I don't know.  But I reckon he's somewhere
out in the woods nursin' himself."

"Not Riggs.  First tell me where HE is."

"Shore, then, you must mean Las Vegas.  I just left him down
at the cabin.  He was gettin' ready for bed, early as it is.
All tired out he was an' thet white you wouldn't have knowed
him.  But he looked happy at thet, an' the last words he
said, more to himself than to me, I reckon, was, 'I'm some
locoed gent, but if she doesn't call me Tom now she's no
good!'"

Bo actually clapped her hands, notwithstanding that one of
them was bandaged.

"Call him Tom?  I should smile I will," she declared, in
delight.  "Hurry now -- what 'd --"

"It's shore powerful strange how he hates thet handle Las
Vegas," went on Roy, imperturbably.

"Roy, tell me what he did -- what TOM did -- or I'll
scream," cried Bo.

"Miss Helen, did you ever see the likes of thet girl?" asked
Roy, appealing to Helen.

"No, Roy, I never did," agreed Helen.  "But please -- please
tell us what has happened."

Roy grinned and rubbed his hands together in a dark delight,
almost fiendish in its sudden revelation of a gulf of
strange emotion deep within him.  Whatever had happened to
Riggs had not been too much for Roy Beeman.  Helen remembered
hearing her uncle say that a real Westerner hated nothing so
hard as the swaggering desperado, the make-believe gunman
who pretended to sail under the true, wild, and reckoning
colors of the West.

Roy leaned his lithe, tall form against the stone
mantelpiece and faced the girls.

"When I rode out after Las Vegas I seen him 'way down the
road," began Roy, rapidly.  "An' I seen another man ridin'
down into Pine from the other side.  Thet was Riggs, only I
didn't know it then.  Las Vegas rode up to the store, where
some fellars was hangin' round, an' he spoke to them.  When I
come up they was all headin' for Turner's saloon.  I seen a
dozen hosses hitched to the rails.  Las Vegas rode on.  But I
got off at Turner's an' went in with the bunch.  Whatever it
was Las Vegas said to them fellars, shore they didn't give
him away.  Pretty soon more men strolled into Turner's an'
there got to be 'most twenty altogether, I reckon.  Jeff
Mulvey was there with his pards.  They had been drinkin'
sorta free.  An' I didn't like the way Mulvey watched me.  So
I went out an' into the store, but kept a-lookin' for Las
Vegas.  He wasn't in sight.  But I seen Riggs ridin' up.  Now,
Turner's is where Riggs hangs out an' does his braggin'.  He
looked powerful deep an' thoughtful, dismounted slow without
seein' the unusual number of hosses there, an' then he
slouches into Turner's.  No more 'n a minute after Las Vegas
rode down there like a streak.  An' just as quick he was off
an' through thet door."

Roy paused as if to gain force or to choose his words.  His
tale now appeared all directed to Bo, who gazed at him,
spellbound, a fascinated listener.

"Before I got to Turner's door -- an' thet was only a little
ways -- I heard Las Vegas yell.  Did you ever hear him?  Wal,
he's got the wildest yell of any cow-puncher I ever beard.
Quicklike I opened the door an' slipped in.  There was Riggs
an' Las Vegas alone in the center of the big saloon, with
the crowd edgin' to the walls an' slidin' back of the bar.
Riggs was whiter 'n a dead man.  I didn't hear an' I don't
know what Las Vegas yelled at him.  But Riggs knew an' so did
the gang.  All of a sudden every man there shore seen in Las
Vegas what Riggs had always bragged HE was.  Thet time comes
to every man like Riggs.

"'What 'd you call me?' he asked, his jaw shakin'.

"'I 'ain't called you yet,' answered Las Vegas.  'I just
whooped.'

"'What d'ye want?'

"'You scared my girl.'

"'The hell ye say!  Who's she?' blustered Riggs, an' he began
to take quick looks 'round.  But he never moved a hand.  There
was somethin' tight about the way he stood.  Las Vegas had
both arms half out, stretched as if he meant to leap.  But he
wasn't.  I never seen Las Vegas do thet, but when I seen him
then I understood it.

"'You know.  An' you threatened her an' her sister.  Go for
your gun,' called Las Vegas, low an' sharp.

"Thet put the crowd right an' nobody moved.  Riggs turned
green then.  I almost felt sorry for him.  He began to shake
so he'd dropped a gun if he had pulled one.

"'Hyar, you're off -- some mistake -- I 'ain't seen no gurls
-- I --'

"'Shut up an' draw!' yelled Las Vegas.  His voice just
pierced holes in the roof, an' it might have been a bullet
from the way Riggs collapsed.  Every man seen in a second
more thet Riggs wouldn't an' couldn't draw.  He was afraid
for his life.  He was not what he had claimed to be.  I don't
know if he had any friends there.  But in the West good men
an' bad men, all alike, have no use for Riggs's kind.  An'
thet stony quiet broke with haw -- haw.  It shore was as
pitiful to see Riggs as it was fine to see Las Vegas.

"When he dropped his arms then I knowed there would be no
gun-play.  An' then Las Vegas got red in the face.  He slapped
Riggs with one hand, then with the other.  An' he began to
cuss him.  I shore never knowed thet nice-spoken Las Vegas
Carmichael could use such language.  It was a stream of the
baddest names known out here, an' lots I never heard of.  Now
an' then I caught somethin' like low-down an' sneak an'
four-flush an' long-haired skunk, but for the most part they
was just the cussedest kind of names.  An' Las Vegas spouted
them till he was black in the face, an' foamin' at the
mouth, an' hoarser 'n a bawlin' cow.

"When he got out of breath from cussin' he punched Riggs all
about the saloon, threw him outdoors, knocked him down an'
kicked him till he got kickin' him down the road with the
whole haw-hawed gang behind.  An' he drove him out of town!"



CHAPTER XVIII

For two days Bo was confined to her bed, suffering
considerable pain, and subject to fever, during which she
talked irrationally.  Some of this talk afforded Helen as
vast an amusement as she was certain it would have lifted
Tom Carmichael to a seventh heaven.

The third day, however, Bo was better, and, refusing to
remain in bed, she hobbled to the sitting-room, where she
divided her time between staring out of the window toward
the corrals and pestering Helen with questions she tried to
make appear casual.  But Helen saw through her case and was
in a state of glee.  What she hoped most for was that
Carmichael would suddenly develop a little less inclination
for Bo.  It was that kind of treatment the young lady needed.
And now was the great opportunity.  Helen almost felt tempted
to give the cowboy a hint.

Neither this day, nor the next, however, did he put in an
appearance at the house, though Helen saw him twice on her
rounds.  He was busy, as usual, and greeted her as if nothing
particular had happened.

Roy called twice, once in the afternoon, and again during
the evening.  He grew more likable upon longer acquaintance.
This last visit he rendered Bo speechless by teasing her
about another girl Carmichael was going to take to a dance.
Bo's face showed that her vanity could not believe this
statement, but that her intelligence of young men credited
it with being possible.  Roy evidently was as penetrating as
he was kind.  He made a dry, casual little remark about the
snow never melting on the mountains during the latter part
of March; and the look with which he accompanied this remark
brought a blush to Helen's cheek.

After Roy had departed Bo said to Helen: "Confound that
fellow!  He sees right through me."

"My dear, you're rather transparent these days," murmured
Helen.

"You needn't talk.  He gave you a dig," retorted Bo.  "He just
knows you're dying to see the snow melt."

"Gracious!  I hope I'm not so bad as that.  Of course I want
the snow melted and spring to come, and flowers --"

"Hal Ha!  Ha!" taunted Bo.  "Nell Rayner, do you see any green
in my eyes?  Spring to come!  Yes, the poet said in the spring
a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.  But
that poet meant a young woman."

Helen gazed out of the window at the white stars.

"Nell, have you seen him -- since I was hurt?" continued Bo,
with an effort.

"Him?  Who?"

"Oh, whom do you suppose?  I mean Tom!" she responded, and
the last word came with a burst.

"Tom?  Who's he?  Ah, you mean Las Vegas.  Yes, I've seen him."

"Well, did he ask a-about me?"

"I believe he did ask how you were -- something like that."

"Humph!  Nell, I don't always trust you." After that she
relapsed into silence, read awhile, and dreamed awhile,
looking into the fire, and then she limped over to kiss
Helen good night and left the room.

Next day she was rather quiet, seeming upon the verge of one
of the dispirited spells she got infrequently.  Early in the
evening, just after the lights had been lit and she had
joined Helen in the sitting-room, a familiar step sounded on
the loose boards of the porch.

Helen went to the door to admit Carmichael.  He was
clean-shaven, dressed in his dark suit, which presented such
marked contrast from his riding-garb, and he wore a flower
in his buttonhole.  Nevertheless, despite all this style, he
seemed more than usually the cool, easy, careless cowboy.

"Evenin', Miss Helen," he said, as he stalked in.  "Evenin',
Miss Bo.  How are you-all?"

Helen returned his greeting with a welcoming smile.

"Good evening -- TOM," said Bo, demurely.

That assuredly was the first time she had ever called him
Tom.  As she spoke she looked distractingly pretty and
tantalizing.  But if she had calculated to floor Carmichael
with the initial, half-promising, wholly mocking use of his
name she had reckoned without cause.  The cowboy received
that greeting as if he had heard her use it a thousand times
or had not heard it at all.  Helen decided if he was acting a
part he was certainly a clever actor.  He puzzled her
somewhat, but she liked his look, and his easy manner, and
the something about him that must have been his unconscious
sense of pride.  He had gone far enough, perhaps too far, in
his overtures to Bo.

"How are you feelin'?" he asked.

"I'm better to-day," she replied, with downcast eyes.  "But
I'm lame yet."

"Reckon that bronc piled you up.  Miss Helen said there shore
wasn't any joke about the cut on your knee.  Now, a fellar's
knee is a bad place to hurt, if he has to keep on ridin'."

"Oh, I'll be well soon.  How's Sam?  I hope he wasn't
crippled."

"Thet Sam -- why, he's so tough he never knowed he had a
fall."

"Tom -- I -- I want to thank you for giving Riggs what he
deserved."

She spoke it earnestly, eloquently, and for once she had no
sly little intonation or pert allurement, such as was her
wont to use on this infatuated young man.

"Aw, you heard about that," replied Carmichael, with a wave
of his hand to make light of it.  "Nothin' much.  It had to be
done.  An' shore I was afraid of Roy.  He'd been bad.  An' so
would any of the other boys.  I'm sorta lookin' out for all
of them, you know, actin' as Miss Helen's foreman now."

Helen was unutterably tickled.  The effect of his speech upon
Bo was stupendous.  He had disarmed her.  He had, with the
finesse and tact and suavity of a diplomat, removed himself
from obligation, and the detachment of self, the casual
thing be apparently made out of his magnificent
championship, was bewildering and humiliating to Bo.  She sat
silent for a moment or two while Helen tried to fit easily
into the conversation.  It was not likely that Bo would long
be at a loss for words, and also it was immensely probable
that with a flash of her wonderful spirit she would turn the
tables on her perverse lover in a twinkling.  Anyway, plain
it was that a lesson had sunk deep.  She looked startled,
hurt, wistful, and finally sweetly defiant.

"But -- you told Riggs I was your girl!" Thus Bo unmasked
her battery.  And Helen could not imagine how Carmichael
would ever resist that and the soft, arch glance which
accompanied it.

Helen did not yet know the cowboy, any more than did Bo.

"Shore.  I had to say thet.  I had to make it strong before
thet gang.  I reckon it was presumin' of me, an' I shore
apologize."

Bo stared at him, and then, giving a little gasp, she
drooped.

"Wal, I just run in to say howdy an' to inquire after
you-all," said Carmichael.  "I'm goin' to the dance, an' as
Flo lives out of town a ways I'd shore better rustle. . . .
Good night, Miss Bo; I hope you'll be ridin' Sam soon.  An'
good night, Miss Helen."

Bo roused to a very friendly and laconic little speech, much
overdone.  Carmichael strode out, and Helen, bidding him
good-by, closed the door after him.

The instant he had departed Bo's transformation was tragic.

"Flo!  He meant Flo Stubbs -- that ugly, cross-eyed, bold,
little frump!"

"Bo!" expostulated Helen.  "The young lady is not beautiful,
I grant, but she's very nice and pleasant.  I liked her."

"Nell Rayner, men are no good!  And cowboys are the worst!"
declared Bo, terribly.

"Why didn't you appreciate Tom when you had him?" asked
Helen.

Bo had been growing furious, but now the allusion, in past
tense, to the conquest she had suddenly and amazingly found
dear quite broke her spirit.  It was a very pale, unsteady,
and miserable girl who avoided Helen's gaze and left the
room.

Next day Bo was not approachable from any direction.  Helen
found her a victim to a multiplicity of moods, ranging from
woe to dire, dark broodings, from them to' wistfulness, and
at last to a pride that sustained her.

Late in the afternoon, at Helen's leisure hour, when she and
Bo were in the sitting-room, horses tramped into the court
and footsteps mounted the porch.  Opening to a loud knock,
Helen was surprised to see Beasley.  And out in the court
were several mounted horsemen.  Helen's heart sank.  This
visit, indeed, had been foreshadowed.

"Afternoon, Miss Rayner," said Beasley, doffing his
sombrero.  "I've called on a little business deal.  Will you
see me?"

Helen acknowledged his greeting while she thought rapidly.
She might just as well see him and have that inevitable
interview done with.

"Come in," she said, and when he had entered she closed the
door.  "My sister, Mr.  Beasley."

"How d' you do, Miss?" said the rancher, in bluff, loud
voice.

Bo acknowledged the introduction with a frigid little bow.

At close range Beasley seemed a forceful personality as well
as a rather handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, heavy of
build, swarthy of skin, and sloe-black of eye, like that of
the Mexicans whose blood was reported to be in him.  He
looked crafty, confident, and self-centered.  If Helen had
never heard of him before that visit she would have
distrusted him.

"I'd called sooner, but I was waitin' for old Jose, the
Mexican who herded for me when I was pardner to your uncle,"
said Beasley, and he sat down to put his huge gloved hands
on his knees.

"Yes?" queried Helen, interrogatively.

"Jose rustled over from Magdalena, an' now I can back up my
claim. . . .  Miss Rayner, this hyar ranch ought to be mine
an' is mine.  It wasn't so big or so well stocked when Al
Auchincloss beat me out of it.  I reckon I'll allow for thet.
I've papers, an' old Jose for witness.  An' I calculate
you'll pay me eighty thousand dollars, or else I'll take
over the ranch."

Beasley spoke in an ordinary, matter-of-fact tone that
certainly seemed sincere, and his manner was blunt, but
perfectly natural.

"Mr.  Beasley, your claim is no news to me," responded Helen,
quietly.  "I've heard about it.  And I questioned my uncle.  He
swore on his death-bed that he did not owe you a dollar.
Indeed, he claimed the indebtedness was yours to him.  I
could find nothing in his papers, so I must repudiate your
claim.  I will not take it seriously."

"Miss Rayner, I can't blame you for takin' Al's word against
mine," said Beasley.  "An' your stand is natural.  But you're
a stranger here an' you know nothin' of stock deals in these
ranges.  It ain't fair to speak bad of the dead, but the
truth is thet Al Auchincloss got his start by stealin' sheep
an' unbranded cattle.  Thet was the start of every rancher I
know.  It was mine.  An' we none of us ever thought of it as
rustlin'."

Helen could only stare her surprise and doubt at this
statement.

"Talk's cheap anywhere, an' in the West talk ain't much at
all," continued Beasley.  "I'm no talker.  I jest want to tell
my case an' make a deal if you'll have it.  I can prove more
in black an' white, an' with witness, than you can.  Thet's
my case.  The deal I'd make is this. . . .  Let's marry an'
settle a bad deal thet way."

The man's direct assumption, absolutely without a qualifying
consideration for her woman's attitude, was amazing,
ignorant, and base; but Helen was so well prepared for it
that she hid her disgust.

"Thank you, Mr.  Beasley, but I can't accept your offer," she
replied.

"Would you take time an' consider?" he asked, spreading wide
his huge gloved hands.

"Absolutely no."

Beasley rose to his feet.  He showed no disappointment or
chagrin, but the bold pleasantness left his face, and,
slight as that change was, it stripped him of the only
redeeming quality he showed.

"Thet means I'll force you to pay me the eighty thousand or
put you off," he said.

"Mr.  Beasley, even if I owed you that, how could I raise so
enormous a sum?  I don't owe it.  And I certainly won't be put
off my property.  You can't put me off."

"An' why can't I" he demanded, with lowering, dark gaze.

"Because your claim is dishonest.  And I can prove it,"
declared Helen, forcibly.

"Who 're you goin' to prove it to -- thet I'm dishonest?"

"To my men -- to your men -- to the people of Pine -- to
everybody.  There's not a person who won't believe me."

He seemed curious, discomfited, surlily annoyed, and yet
fascinated by her statement or else by the quality and
appearance of her as she spiritedly defended her cause.

"An' how 're you goin' to prove all thet?" he growled.

"Mr.  Beasley, do you remember last fall when you met Snake
Anson with his gang up in the woods -- and hired him to make
off with me?" asked Helen, in swift, ringing words.

The dark olive of Beasley's bold face shaded to a dirty
white.

"Wha-at?" he jerked out, hoarsely.

"I see you remember.  Well, Milt Dale was hidden in the loft
of that cabin where you met Anson.  He heard every word of
your deal with the outlaw."

Beasley swung his arm in sudden violence, so hard that he
flung his glove to the floor.  As he stooped to snatch it up
he uttered a sibilant hiss.  Then, stalking to the door, he
jerked it open, and slammed it behind him.  His loud voice,
hoarse with passion, preceded the scrape and crack of hoofs.


Shortly after supper that day, when Helen was just
recovering her composure, Carmichael presented himself at
the open door.  Bo was not there.  In the dimming twilight
Helen saw that the cowboy was pale, somber, grim.

"Oh, what's happened?" cried Helen.

"Roy's been shot.  It come off in Turner's saloon But he
ain't dead.  We packed him over to Widow Cass's.  An' he said
for me to tell you he'd pull through."

"Shot!  Pull through!" repeated Helen, in slow, unrealizing
exclamation.  She was conscious of a deep internal tumult and
a cold checking of blood in all her external body.

"Yes, shot," replied Carmichael, fiercely.

"An', whatever he says, I reckon he won't pull through."

"O Heaven, how terrible!" burst out Helen.  "He was so good
-- such a man!  What a pity!  Oh, he must have met that in my
behalf.  Tell me, what happened?  Who shot him?"

"Wal, I don't know.  An' thet's what's made me hoppin' mad.  I
wasn't there when it come off.  An' he won't tell me."

"Why not?"

"I don't know thet, either.  I reckoned first it was because
he wanted to get even.  But, after thinkin' it over, I guess
he doesn't want me lookin' up any one right now for fear I
might get hurt.  An' you're goin' to need your friends.
Thet's all I can make of Roy."

Then Helen hurriedly related the event of Beasley's call on
her that afternoon and all that had occurred.

"Wal, the half-breed son-of-a-greaser!" ejaculated
Carmichael, in utter confoundment.  "He wanted you to marry
him!"

"He certainly did.  I must say it was a -- a rather abrupt
proposal."

Carmichael appeared to be laboring with speech that had to
be smothered behind his teeth.  At last he let out an
explosive breath.

"Miss Nell, I've shore felt in my bones thet I'm the boy
slated to brand thet big bull."

"Oh, he must have shot Roy.  He left here in a rage."

"I reckon you can coax it out of Roy.  Fact is, all I could
learn was thet Roy come in the saloon alone.  Beasley was
there, an' Riggs --"

"Riggs!" interrupted Helen.

"Shore, Riggs.  He come back again.  But he'd better keep out
of my way. . . .  An' Jeff Mulvey with his outfit.  Turner
told me he heard an argument an' then a shot.  The gang
cleared out, leavin' Roy on the floor.  I come in a little
later.  Roy was still layin' there.  Nobody was doin' anythin'
for him.  An' nobody had.  I hold that against Turner.  Wal, I
got help an' packed Roy over to Widow Cass's.  Roy seemed all
right.  But he was too bright an' talky to suit me.  The
bullet hit his lung, thet's shore.  An' he lost a sight of
blood before we stopped it.  Thet skunk Turner might have
lent a hand.  An' if Roy croaks I reckon I'll --"

"Tom, why must you always be reckoning to kill somebody?"
demanded Helen, angrily.

"'Cause somebody's got to be killed 'round here.  Thet's
why!" he snapped back.

"Even so -- should you risk leaving Bo and me without a
friend?" asked Helen, reproachfully.

At that Carmichael wavered and lost something of his sullen
deadliness.

"Aw, Miss Nell, I'm only mad.  If you'll just be patient with
me -- an' mebbe coax me. . . .  But I can't see no other way
out."

"Let's hope and pray," said Helen, earnestly.  "You spoke of
my coaxing Roy to tell who shot him.  When can I see him?"

"To-morrow, I reckon.  I'll come for you.  Fetch Bo along with
you.  We've got to play safe from now on.  An' what do you say
to me an' Hal sleepin' here at the ranch-house?"

"Indeed I'd feel safer," she replied.  "There are rooms.
Please come."

"Allright.  An' now I'll be goin' to fetch Hal.  Shore wish I
hadn't made you pale an' scared like this."


About ten o'clock next morning Carmichael drove Helen and Bo
into Pine, and tied up the team before Widow Cass's cottage.

The peach and apple-trees were mingling blossoms of pink
and white; a drowsy hum of bees filled the fragrant air;
rich, dark-green alfalfa covered the small orchard flat; a
wood fire sent up a lazy column of blue smoke; and birds
were singing sweetly.

Helen could scarcely believe that amid all this tranquillity
a man lay perhaps fatally injured.  Assuredly Carmichael had
been somber and reticent enough to rouse the gravest fears.

Widow Cass appeared on the little porch, a gray, bent, worn,
but cheerful old woman whom Helen had come to know as her
friend.

"My land!  I'm thet glad to see you, Miss Helen," she said.
"An' you've fetched the little lass as I've not got
acquainted with yet."

"Good morning, Mrs.  Cass.  How -- how is Roy?" replied Helen,
anxiously scanning the wrinkled face.

"Roy?  Now don't you look so scared.  Roy's 'most ready to git
on his hoss an' ride home, if I let him.  He knowed you was
a-comin'.  An' he made me hold a lookin'-glass for him to
shave.  How's thet fer a man with a bullet-hole through him!
You can't kill them Mormons, nohow."

She led them into a little sitting-room, where on a couch
underneath a window Roy Beeman lay.  He was wide awake and
smiling, but haggard.  He lay partly covered with a blanket.
His gray shirt was open at the neck, disclosing bandages.

"Mornin' -- girls," he drawled.  "Shore is good of you, now,
comin' down."

Helen stood beside him, bent over him, in her earnestness,
as she greeted him.  She saw a shade of pain in his eyes and
his immobility struck her, but he did not seem badly off.  Bo
was pale, round-eyed, and apparently too agitated to speak.
Carmichael placed chairs beside the couch for the girls.

"Wal, what's ailin' you this nice mornin'?" asked Roy, eyes
on the cowboy.

"Huh!  Would you expect me to be wearin' the smile of a
fellar goin' to be married?" retorted Carmichael.

"Shore you haven't made up with Bo yet," returned Roy.

Bo blushed rosy red, and the cowboy's face lost something of
its somber hue.

"I allow it's none of your d -- darn bizness if SHE ain't
made up with me," he said.

"Las Vegas, you're a wonder with a hoss an' a rope, an' I
reckon with a gun, but when it comes to girls you shore
ain't there."

"I'm no Mormon, by golly!  Come, Ma Cass, let's get out of
here, so they can talk."

"Folks, I was jest a-goin' to say thet Roy's got fever an'
he oughtn't t' talk too much," said the old woman.  Then she
and Carmichael went into the kitchen and closed the door.

Roy looked up at Helen with his keen eyes, more kindly
piercing than ever.

"My brother John was here.  He'd just left when you come.  He
rode home to tell my folks I'm not so bad hurt, an' then
he's goin' to ride a bee-line into the mountains."

Helen's eyes asked what her lips refused to utter.

"He's goin' after Dale.  I sent him.  I reckoned we-all sorta
needed sight of thet doggone hunter."

Roy had averted his gaze quickly to Bo.

"Don't you agree with me, lass?"

"I sure do," replied Bo, heartily.

All within Helen had been stilled for the moment of her
realization; and then came swell and beat of heart, and
inconceivable chafing of a tide at its restraint.

"Can John -- fetch Dale out -- when the snow's so deep?" she
asked, unsteadily.

"Shore.  He's takin' two hosses up to the snow-line.  Then, if
necessary, he'll go over the pass on snow-shoes.  But I bet
him Dale would ride out.  Snow's about gone except on the
north slopes an' on the peaks."

"Then -- when may I -- we expect to see Dale?"

"Three or four days, I reckon.  I wish he was here now. . . .
Miss Helen, there's trouble afoot."

"I realize that.  I'm ready.  Did Las Vegas tell you about
Beasley's visit to me?"

"No.  You tell me," replied Roy.

Briefly Helen began to acquaint him with the circumstances
of that visit, and before she had finished she made sure Roy
was swearing to himself.

"He asked you to marry him!  Jerusalem!  . . .  Thet I'd never
have reckoned.  The -- low-down coyote of a greaser!  . . .
Wal, Miss Helen, when I met up with Senor Beasley last night
he was shore spoilin' from somethin'; now I see what thet
was.  An' I reckon I picked out the bad time."

"For what?  Roy, what did you do?"

"Wal, I'd made up my mind awhile back to talk to Beasley the
first chance I had.  An' thet was it.  I was in the store when
I seen him go into Turner's.  So I followed.  It was 'most
dark.  Beasley an' Riggs an' Mulvey an' some more were
drinkin' an' powwowin'.  So I just braced him right then."

"Roy!  Oh, the way you boys court danger!"

"But, Miss Helen, thet's the only way.  To be afraid MAKES
more danger.  Beasley 'peared civil enough first off.  Him an'
me kept edgin' off, an' his pards kept edgin' after us, till
we got over in a corner of the saloon.  I don't know all I
said to him.  Shore I talked a heap.  I told him what my old
man thought.  An' Beasley knowed as well as I thet my old
man's not only the oldest inhabitant hereabouts, but he's
the wisest, too.  An' he wouldn't tell a lie.  Wal, I used all
his sayin's in my argument to show Beasley thet if he didn't
haul up short he'd end almost as short.  Beasley's
thick-headed, an' powerful conceited.  Vain as a peacock!  He
couldn't see, an' he got mad.  I told him he was rich enough
without robbin' you of your ranch, an' -- wal, I shore put
up a big talk for your side.  By this time he an' his gang
had me crowded in a corner, an' from their looks I begun to
get cold feet.  But I was in it an' had to make the best of
it.  The argument worked down to his pinnin' me to my word
that I'd fight for you when thet fight come off.  An' I shore
told him for my own sake I wished it 'd come off quick. . . .
Then -- wal -- then somethin' did come off quick!"

"Roy, then he shot you!" exclaimed Helen, passionately.

"Now, Miss Helen, I didn't say who done it," replied Roy,
with his engaging smile.

"Tell me, then -- who did?"

"Wal, I reckon I sha'n't tell you unless you promise not to
tell Las Vegas.  Thet cowboy is plumb off his head.  He thinks
he knows who shot me an' I've been lyin' somethin'
scandalous.  You see, if he learns -- then he'll go gunnin'.
An', Miss Helen, thet Texan is bad.  He might get plugged as
I did -- an' there would be another man put off your side
when the big trouble comes."

"Roy, I promise you I will not tell Las Vegas," replied
Helen, earnestly.

"Wal, then -- it was Riggs!" Roy grew still paler as he
confessed this and his voice, almost a whisper, expressed
shame and hate.  "Thet four-flush did it.  Shot me from behind
Beasley!  I had no chance.  I couldn't even see him draw.  But
when I fell an' lay there an' the others dropped back, then
I seen the smokin' gun in his hand.  He looked powerful
important.  An' Beasley began to cuss him an' was cussin' him
as they all run out."

"Oh, coward!  the despicable coward!" cried Helen.

"No wonder Tom wants to find out!" exclaimed Bo, low and
deep.  "I'll bet he suspects Riggs."

"Shore he does, but I wouldn't give him no satisfaction."

"Roy, you know that Riggs can't last out here."

"Wal, I hope he lasts till I get on my feet again."

"There you go!  Hopeless, all you boys!  You must spill
blood!" murmured Helen, shudderingly.

"Dear Miss Helen, don't take on so.  I'm like Dale -- no man
to hunt up trouble.  But out here there's a sort of unwritten
law -- an eye for an eye -- a tooth for a tooth.  I believe
in God Almighty, an' killin' is against my religion, but
Riggs shot me -- the same as shootin' me in the back."

"Roy, I'm only a woman -- I fear, faint-hearted and unequal
to this West."

"Wait till somethin' happens to you.  'Supposin' Beasley
comes an' grabs you with his own dirty big paws an', after
maulin' you some, throws you out of your home!  Or supposin'
Riggs chases you into a corner!"

Helen felt the start of all her physical being -- a violent
leap of blood.  But she could only judge of her looks from
the grim smile of the wounded man as he watched her with his
keen, intent eyes.

"My friend, anythin' can happen," he said.  "But let's hope
it won't be the worst."

He had begun to show signs of weakness, and Helen, rising at
once, said that she and Bo had better leave him then, but
would come to see him the next day.  At her call Carmichael
entered again with Mrs.  Cass, and after a few remarks the
visit was terminated.  Carmichael lingered in the doorway.

"Wal, Cheer up, you old Mormon!" he called.

"Cheer up yourself, you cross old bachelor!" retorted Roy,
quite unnecessarily loud.  "Can't you raise enough nerve to
make up with Bo?"

Carmichael evacuated the doorway as if he had been spurred.
He was quite red in the face while he unhitched the team,
and silent during the ride up to the ranch-house.  There he
got down and followed the girls into the sitting room.  He
appeared still somber, though not sullen, and had fully
regained his composure.

"Did you find out who shot Roy?" he asked, abruptly, of
Helen.

"Yes.  But I promised Roy I would not tell," replied Helen,
nervously.  She averted her eyes from his searching gaze,
intuitively fearing his next query.

"Was it thet -- Riggs?"

"Las Vegas, don't ask me.  I will not break my promise."

He strode to the window and looked out a moment, and
presently, when he turned toward Bo, he seemed a stronger,
loftier, more impelling man, with all his emotions under
control.

"Bo, will you listen to me -- if I swear to speak the truth
-- as I know it?"

"Why, certainly," replied Bo, with the color coming swiftly
to her face.

"Roy doesn't want me to know because he wants to meet thet
fellar himself.  An' I want to know because I want to stop
him before he can do more dirt to us or our friends.  Thet's
Roy's reason an' mine.  An' I'm askin' YOU to tell me."

"But, Tom -- I oughtn't," replied Bo, haltingly.

"Did you promise Roy not to tell?"

"No."

"Or your sister?"

"No.  I didn't promise either."

"Wal, then you tell me.  I want you to trust me in this here
matter.  But not because I love you an' once had a wild dream
you might care a little for me --"

"Oh -- Tom!" faltered Bo.

"Listen.  I want you to trust me because I'm the one who
knows what's best.  I wouldn't lie an' I wouldn't say so if I
didn't know shore.  I swear Dale will back me up.  But he
can't be here for some days.  An' thet gang has got to be
bluffed.  You ought to see this.  I reckon you've been quick
in savvyin' Western ways.  I couldn't pay you no higher
compliment, Bo Rayner. . . .  Now will you tell me?"

"Yes, I will," replied Bo, with the blaze leaping to her
eyes.

"Oh, Bo -- please don't -- please don't.  Wait!" implored
Helen.

"Bo -- it's between you an' me," said Carmichael.

"Tom, I'll tell you," whispered Bo.  "It was a lowdown,
cowardly trick. . . .  Roy was surrounded -- and shot from
behind Beasley -- by that four-flush Riggs!"



CHAPTER XIX

The memory of a woman had ruined Milt Dale's peace, had
confounded his philosophy of self-sufficient, lonely
happiness in the solitude of the wilds, had forced him to
come face to face with his soul and the fatal significance
of life.

When he realized his defeat, that things were not as they
seemed, that there was no joy for him in the coming of
spring, that he had been blind in his free, sensorial,
Indian relation to existence, he fell into an inexplicably
strange state, a despondency, a gloom as deep as the silence
of his home.  Dale reflected that the stronger an animal, the
keener its nerves, the higher its intelligence, the greater
must be its suffering under restraint or injury.  He thought
of himself as a high order of animal whose great physical
need was action, and now the incentive to action seemed
dead.  He grew lax.  He did not want to move.  He performed his
diminishing duties under compulsion.

He watched for spring as a liberation, but not that he could
leave the valley.  He hated the cold, he grew weary of wind
and snow; he imagined the warm sun, the park once more green
with grass and bright with daisies, the return of birds and
squirrels and deer to heir old haunts, would be the means
whereby he could break this spell upon him.  Then he might
gradually return to past contentment, though it would never
be the same.

But spring, coming early to Paradise Park, brought a fever
to Dale's blood -- a fire of unutterable longing.  It was
good, perhaps, that this was so, because he seemed driven to
work, climb, tramp, and keep ceaselessly on the move from
dawn till dark.  Action strengthened his lax muscles and kept
him from those motionless, senseless hours of brooding.  He
at least need not be ashamed of longing for that which could
never be his -- the sweetness of a woman -- a home full of
light, joy, hope, the meaning and beauty of children.  But
those dark moods were sinkings into a pit of hell.

Dale had not kept track of days and weeks.  He did not know
when the snow melted off three slopes of Paradise Park.  All
he knew was that an age had dragged over his head and that
spring had come.  During his restless waking hours, and even
when he was asleep, there seemed always in the back of his
mind a growing consciousness that soon he would emerge from
this trial, a changed man, ready to sacrifice his chosen
lot, to give up his lonely life of selfish indulgence in
lazy affinity with nature, and to go wherever his strong
hands might perform some real service to people.
Nevertheless, he wanted to linger in this mountain fastness
until his ordeal was over -- until he could meet her, and
the world, knowing himself more of a man than ever before.

One bright morning, while he was at his camp-fire, the tame
cougar gave a low, growling warning.  Dale was startled.  Tom
did not act like that because of a prowling grizzly or a
straying stag.  Presently Dale espied a horseman riding
slowly out of the straggling spruces.  And with that sight
Dale's heart gave a leap, recalling to him a divination of
his future relation to his kind.  Never had he been so glad
to see a man!

This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the
way he sat his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to
be John.

At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot,
soon reaching the pines and the camp.

"Howdy, there, you ole b'ar-hunter!" called John, waving his
hand.

For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like
response from Dale.  The horse was mud to his flanks and John
was mud to his knees, wet, bedraggled, worn, and white.  This
hue of his face meant more than fatigue.

"Howdy, John?" replied Dale.

They shook hands.  John wearily swung his leg over the
pommel, but did not at once dismount.  His clear gray eyes
were wonderingly riveted upon the hunter.

"Milt -- what 'n hell's wrong?" he queried.

"Why?"

"Bust me if you ain't changed so I hardly knowed you.  You've
been sick -- all alone here!"

"Do I look sick?"

"Wal, I should smile.  Thin an' pale an' down in the mouth!
Milt, what ails you?"

"I've gone to seed."

"You've gone off your head, jest as Roy said, livin' alone
here.  You overdid it, Milt.  An' you look sick."

"John, my sickness is here," replied Dale, soberly, as he
laid a hand on his heart.

"Lung trouble!" ejaculated John.  "With thet chest, an' up in
this air?  . . .  Get out!"

"No -- not lung trouble," said Dale.

"I savvy.  Had a hunch from Roy, anyhow."

"What kind of a hunch?"

"Easy now, Dale, ole man. . . .  Don't you reckon I'm ridin'
in on you pretty early?  Look at thet hoss!" John slid off
and waved a hand at the drooping beast, then began to
unsaddle him.  "Wal, he done great.  We bogged some comin'
over.  An' I climbed the pass at night on the frozen snow."

"You're welcome as the flowers in May.  John, what month is
it?"

"By spades!  are you as bad as thet?  . . .  Let's see.  It's
the twenty-third of March."

"March!  Well, I'm beat.  I've lost my reckonin' -- an' a lot
more, maybe."

"Thar!" declared John, slapping the mustang.  "You can jest
hang up here till my next trip.  Milt, how 're your hosses?"

"Wintered fine."

"Wal, thet's good.  We'll need two big, strong hosses right
off."

"What for?" queried Dale, sharply.  He dropped a stick of
wood and straightened up from the camp-fire.

"You're goin' to ride down to Pine with me -- thet's what
for."

Familiarly then came back to Dale the quiet, intent
suggestiveness of the Beemans in moments foreboding trial.

At this certain assurance of John's, too significant to be
doubted, Dale's thought of Pine gave slow birth to a strange
sensation, as if he had been dead and was vibrating back to
life.

"Tell what you got to tell!" he broke out.

Quick as a flash the Mormon replied: "Roy's been shot.  But
he won't die.  He sent for you.  Bad deal's afoot.  Beasley
means to force Helen Rayner out an' steal her ranch."

A tremor ran all through Dale.  It seemed another painful yet
thrilling connection between his past and this vaguely
calling future.  His emotions had been broodings dreams,
longings.  This thing his friend said had the sting of real
life.

"Then old Al's dead?" he asked.

"Long ago -- I reckon around the middle of February.  The
property went to Helen.  She's been doin' fine.  An' many
folks say it's a pity she'll lose it."

"She won't lose it," declared Dale.  How strange his voice
sounded to his own ears!  It was hoarse and unreal, as if
from disuse.

"Wal, we-all have our idees.  I say she will.  My father says
so.  Carmichael says so."

"Who's he?"

"Reckon you remember thet cow-puncher who came up with Roy
an' Auchincloss after the girls -- last fall?"

"Yes.  They called him Las -- Las Vegas.  I liked his looks."

"Humph!  You'll like him a heap when you know him.  He's kept
the ranch goin' for Miss Helen all along.  But the deal's
comin' to a head.  Beasley's got thick with thet Riggs.  You
remember him?"

"Yes."

"Wal, he's been hangin' out at Pine all winter, watchin' for
some chance to get at Miss Helen or Bo.  Everybody's seen
thet.  An' jest lately he chased Bo on hossback -- gave the
kid a nasty fall.  Roy says Riggs was after Miss Helen.  But I
think one or t'other of the girls would do thet varmint.
Wal, thet sorta started goin's-on.  Carmichael beat Riggs an'
drove him out of town.  But he come back.  Beasley called on
Miss Helen an' offered to marry her so's not to take the
ranch from her, he said."

Dale awoke with a thundering curse.

"Shore!" exclaimed John.  "I'd say the same -- only I'm
religious.  Don't thet beady-eyed greaser's gall make you
want to spit all over yourself?  My Gawd!  but Roy was mad!
Roy's powerful fond of Miss Helen an' Bo. . . .  Wal, then,
Roy, first chance he got, braced Beasley an' give him some
straight talk.  Beasley was foamin' at the mouth, Roy said.
It was then Riggs shot Roy.  Shot him from behind Beasley
when Roy wasn't lookin'!  An' Riggs brags of bein' a
gun-fighter.  Mebbe thet wasn't a bad shot for him!"

"I reckon," replied Dale, as he swallowed hard.  "Now, just
what was Roy's message to me?"

"Wal, I can't remember all Roy said," answered John,
dubiously.  "But Roy shore was excited an' dead in earnest.
He says: 'Tell Milt what's happened.  Tell him Helen Rayner's
in more danger than she was last fall.  Tell him I've seen
her look away acrost the mountains toward Paradise Park with
her heart in her eyes.  Tell him she needs him most of all!'"

Dale shook all over as with an attack of ague.  He was seized
by a whirlwind of passionate, terrible sweetness of
sensation, when what he wildly wanted was to curse Roy and
John for their simple-minded conclusions.

"Roy's -- crazy!" panted Dale.

"Wal, now, Milt -- thet's downright surprisin' of you.  Roy's
the level-headest of any fellars I know."

"Man!  if he MADE me believe him -- an' it turned out untrue
-- I'd -- I'd kill him," replied Dale.

"Untrue!  Do you think Roy Beeman would lie?"

"But, John -- you fellows can't see my case.  Nell Rayner
wants me -- needs me!  . . .  It can't be true!"

"Wal, my love-sick pard -- it jest IS true!" exclaimed John,
feelingly.  "Thet's the hell of life -- never knowin'.  But
here it's joy for you.  You can believe Roy Beeman about
women as quick as you'd trust him to track your lost hoss.
Roy's married three girls.  I reckon he'll marry some more.
Roy's only twenty-eight an' he has two big farms.  He said
he'd seen Nell Rayner's heart in her eyes, lookin' for you
-- an' you can jest bet your life thet's true.  An' he said
it because he means you to rustle down there an' fight for
thet girl."

"I'll -- go," said Dale, in a shaky whisper, as he sat down
on a pine log near the fire.  He stared unseeingly at the
bluebells in the grass by his feet while storm after storm
possessed his breast.  They were fierce and brief because
driven by his will.  In those few moments of contending
strife Dale was immeasurably removed from that dark gulf of
self which had made his winter a nightmare.  And when he
stood erect again it seemed that the old earth had a
stirring, electrifying impetus for his feet.  Something
black, bitter, melancholy, and morbid, always unreal to him,
had passed away forever.  The great moment had been forced
upon him.  He did not believe Roy Beeman's preposterous hint
regarding Helen; but he had gone back or soared onward, as
if by magic, to his old true self.


Mounted on Dale's strongest horses, with only a light pack,
an ax, and their weapons, the two men had reached the
snow-line on the pass by noon that day.  Tom, the tame
cougar, trotted along in the rear.

The crust of the snow, now half thawed by the sun, would not
hold the weight of a horse, though it upheld the men on
foot.  They walked, leading the horses.  Travel was not
difficult until the snow began to deepen; then progress
slackened materially.  John had not been able to pick out the
line of the trail, so Dale did not follow his tracks.  An old
blaze on the trees enabled Dale to keep fairly well to the
trail; and at length the height of the pass was reached,
where the snow was deep.  Here the horses labored, plowing
through foot by foot.  When, finally, they sank to their
flanks, they had to be dragged and goaded on, and helped by
thick flat bunches of spruce boughs placed under their
hoofs.  It took three hours of breaking toil to do the few
hundred yards of deep snow on the height of the pass.  The
cougar did not have great difficulty in following, though it
was evident he did not like such traveling.

That behind them, the horses gathered heart and worked on to
the edge of the steep descent, where they had all they could
do to hold back from sliding and rolling.  Fast time was made
on this slope, at the bottom of which began a dense forest
with snow still deep in places and windfalls hard to locate.
The men here performed Herculean labors, but they got
through to a park where the snow was gone.  The ground,
however, soft and boggy, in places was more treacherous than
the snow; and the travelers had to skirt the edge of the
park to a point opposite, and then go on through the forest.
When they reached bare and solid ground, just before dark
that night, it was high time, for the horses were ready to
drop, and the men likewise.

Camp was made in an open wood.  Darkness fell and the men
were resting on bough beds, feet to the fire, with Tom
curled up close by, and the horses still drooping where they
had been unsaddled.  Morning, however, discovered them
grazing on the long, bleached grass.  John shook his head
when he looked at them.

"You reckoned to make Pine by nightfall.  How far is it --
the way you'll go?"

"Fifty mile or thereabouts," replied Dale.

"Wal, we can't ride it on them critters."

"John, we'd do more than that if we had to."

They were saddled and on the move before sunrise, leaving
snow and bog behind.  Level parks and level forests led one
after another to long slopes and steep descents, all growing
sunnier and greener as the altitude diminished.  Squirrels
and grouse, turkeys and deer, and less tame denizens of the
forest grew more abundant as the travel advanced.  In this
game zone, however, Dale had trouble with Tom.  The cougar
had to be watched and called often to keep him off of
trails.

"Tom doesn't like a long trip," said Dale.  "But I'm goin' to
take him.  Some way or other he may come in handy."

"Sic him onto Beasley's gang," replied John.  "Some men are
powerful scared of cougars.  But I never was."

"Nor me.  Though I've had cougars give me a darn uncanny
feelin'."

The men talked but little.  Dale led the way, with Tom
trotting noiselessly beside his horse.  John followed close
behind.  They loped the horses across parks, trotted through
the forests, walked slow up what few inclines they met, and
slid down the soft, wet, pine-matted descents.  So they
averaged from six to eight miles an hour.  The horses held up
well under that steady travel, and this without any rest at
noon.

Dale seemed to feel himself in an emotional trance.  Yet,
despite this, the same old sensorial perceptions crowded
thick and fast upon him, strangely sweet and vivid after the
past dead months when neither sun nor wind nor cloud nor
scent of pine nor anything in nature could stir him.  His
mind, his heart, his soul seemed steeped in an intoxicating
wine of expectation, while his eyes and ears and nose had
never been keener to register the facts of the forest-land.
He saw the black thing far ahead that resembled a burned
stump, but he knew was a bear before it vanished; he saw
gray flash of deer and wolf and coyote, and the red of fox,
and the small, wary heads of old gobblers just sticking
above the grass; and he saw deep tracks of game as well as
the slow-rising blades of bluebells where some soft-footed
beast had just trod.  And he heard the melancholy notes of
birds, the twitter of grouse, the sough of the wind, the
light dropping of pine-cones, the near and distant bark of
squirrels, the deep gobble of a turkey close at hand and the
challenge from a rival far away, the cracking of twigs in
the thickets, the murmur of running water, the scream of an
eagle and the shrill cry of a hawk, and always the soft,
dull, steady pads of the hoofs of the horses.

The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring,
warm and pleasant -- the odor of the clean, fresh earth
cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of
pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new
grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.

"I smell smoke," said Dale, suddenly, as he reined in, and
turned for corroboration from his companion.

John sniffed the warm air.

"Wal, you're more of an Injun than me," he replied, shaking
his head.

They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the
last slope.  A long league of green slanted below them,
breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that
joined the cedars, and these in turn stretched on and down
in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and
bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity of
distance.

The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the
edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny
white dots set in green.

"Look there," said Dale, pointing.

Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped
out of the slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin,
pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as
soon as it had no background of green.

"Thet's your smoke, shore enough," replied John,
thoughtfully.  "Now, I jest wonder who's campin' there.  No
water near or grass for hosses."

"John, that point's been used for smoke signals many a
time."

"Was jest thinkin' of thet same.  Shall we ride around there
an' take a peek?"

"No.  But we'll remember that.  If Beasley's got his deep
scheme goin', he'll have Snake Anson's gang somewhere
close."

"Roy said thet same.  Wal, it's some three hours till
sundown.  The hosses keep up.  I reckon I'm fooled, for we'll
make Pine all right.  But old Tom there, he's tired or lazy."

The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut
eyes were on Dale.

"Tom's only lazy an' fat.  He could travel at this gait for a
week.  But let's rest a half-hour an' watch that smoke before
movin' on.  We can make Pine before sundown."


When travel had been resumed, half-way down the slope Dale's
sharp eyes caught a broad track where shod horses had
passed, climbing in a long slant toward the promontory.  He
dismounted to examine it, and John, coming up, proceeded
with alacrity to get off and do likewise.  Dale made his
deductions, after which he stood in a brown study beside his
horse, waiting for John.

"Wal, what 'd you make of these here tracks?" asked that
worthy.

"Some horses an' a pony went along here yesterday, an'
to-day a single horse made, that fresh track."

"Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain't so bad at hoss tracks,"
observed John, "But how many hosses went yesterday?"

"I couldn't make out -- several -- maybe four or five."

"Six hosses an' a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be
strict-correct.  Wal, supposin' they did.  What 's it mean to
us?"

"I don't know as I'd thought anythin' unusual, if it hadn't
been for that smoke we saw off the rim, an' then this here
fresh track made along to-day.  Looks queer to me."

"Wish Roy was here," replied John, scratching his head.
"Milt, I've a hunch, if he was, he'd foller them tracks."

"Maybe.  But we haven't time for that.  We can backtrail them,
though, if they keep clear as they are here.  An' we'll not
lose any time, either."

That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge
of the cedars, where, amid some jagged rocks, evidences
showed that men had camped there for days.  Here it ended as
a broad trail.  But from the north came the single fresh
track made that very day, and from the east, more in a line
with Pine, came two tracks made the day before.  And these
were imprints of big and little hoofs.  Manifestly these
interested John more than they did Dale, who had to wait for
his companion.

"Milt, it ain't a colt's -- thet little track," avowed John.

"Why not -- an' what if it isn't?" queried Dale.

"Wal, it ain't, because a colt always straggles back, an'
from one side to t'other.  This little track keeps close to
the big one.  An', by George!  it was made by a led mustang."

John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping, intent
fire in his gray eyes.  Dale's reply was to spur his horse
into a trot and call sharply to the lagging cougar.

When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that
was the only thoroughfare of Pine the sun was setting red
and gold behind the mountains.  The horses were too tired for
any more than a walk.  Natives of the village, catching sight
of Dale and Beeman, and the huge gray cat following like a
dog, called excitedly to one another.  A group of men in
front of Turner's gazed intently down the road, and soon
manifested signs of excitement.  Dale and his comrade
dismounted in front of Widow Cass's cottage.  And Dale called
as he strode up the little path.  Mrs.  Cass came out.  She was
white and shaking, but appeared calm.  At sight of her John
Beeman drew a sharp breath.

"Wal, now --" he began, hoarsely, and left off.

"How's Roy?" queried Dale.

"Lord knows I'm glad to see you, boys!  Milt, you're thin an'
strange-lookin'.  Roy's had a little setback.  He got a shock
to-day an' it throwed him off.  Fever -- an' now he's out of
his head.  It won't do no good for you to waste time seein'
him.  Take my word for it he's all right.  But there's others
as -- For the land's sakes, Milt Dale, you fetched thet
cougar back!  Don't let him near me!"

"Tom won't hurt you, mother," said Dale, as the cougar came
padding up the path.  "You were sayin' somethin' -- about
others.  Is Miss Helen safe?  Hurry!"

"Ride up to see her -- an' waste no more time here."

Dale was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the
horses had to be severely punished to force them even to a
trot.  And that was a lagging trot, which now did not leave
Torn behind.

The ride up to Auchincloss's ranch-house seemed endless to
Dale.  Natives came out in the road to watch after he had
passed.  Stern as Dale was in dominating his feelings, he
could not wholly subordinate his mounting joy to a waiting
terrible anticipation of catastrophe.  But no matter what
awaited -- nor what fateful events might hinge upon this
nameless circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful
and glorious fact of the present was that in a moment he
would see Helen Rayner.

There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders.  A
Mexican boy sat on the porch bench, in the seat where Dale
remembered he had encountered Al Auchincloss.  The door of
the big sitting-room was open.  The scent of flowers, the
murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came vaguely to Dale.
His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out of his
saddle, seemed far below him.  He stepped upon the porch.  His
sight suddenly cleared.  A tight fullness at his throat made
incoherent the words he said to the Mexican boy.  But they
were understood, as the boy ran back around the house.  Dale
knocked sharply and stepped over the threshold.

Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in
that moment of suspense, about the faithful, exhausted
horses.  As he unsaddled them he talked: "Fer soft an' fat
hosses, winterin' high up, wal, you've done somethin'!"

Then Dale heard a voice in another room, a step, a creak of
the door.  It opened.  A woman in white appeared.  He
recognized Helen.  But instead of the rich brown bloom and
dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on his memory, he saw
a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in anguish,
and eyes that pierced his heart.  He could not speak.

"Oh!  my friend -- you've come!" she whispered.

Dale put out a shaking hand.  But she did not see it.  She
clutched his shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was
real, and then her arms went up round his neck.

"Oh, thank God!  I knew you would come!" she said, and her
head sank to his shoulder.

Dale divined what he had suspected.  Helen's sister had been
carried off.  Yet, while his quick mind grasped Helen's
broken spirit -- the unbalance that was reason for this
marvelous and glorious act -- he did not take other meaning
of the embrace to himself.  He just stood there, transported,
charged like a tree struck by lightning, making sure with
all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever, how she
was clinging round his neck, her face over his bursting
heart, her quivering form close pressed to his.

"It's -- Bo," he said, unsteadily.

"She went riding yesterday -- and -- never -- came -- back!"
replied Helen, brokenly.

"I've seen her trail.  She's been taken into the woods.  I'll
find her.  I'll fetch her back," he replied, rapidly.

With a shock she seemed to absorb his meaning.  With another
shock she raised her face -- leaned back a little to look at
him.

"You'll find her -- fetch her back?"

"Yes," he answered, instantly.

With that ringing word it seemed to Dale she realized how
she was standing.  He felt her shake as she dropped her arms
and stepped back, while the white anguish of her face was
flooded out by a wave of scarlet.  But she was brave in her
confusion.  Her eyes never fell, though they changed swiftly,
darkening with shame, amaze, and with feelings he could not
read.

"I'm almost -- out of my head," she faltered.

"No wonder.  I saw that. . . .  But now you must get
clear-headed.  I've no time to lose."

He led her to the door.

"John, it's Bo that's gone," he called.  "Since yesterday. . . .
Send the boy to get me a bag of meat an' bread.  You run
to the corral an' get me a fresh horse.  My old horse Ranger
if you can find him quick.  An' rustle."

Without a word John leaped bareback on one of the horses he
had just unsaddled and spurred him across the courtyard.

Then the big cougar, seeing Helen, got up from where he lay
on the porch and came to her.

"Oh, it's Tom!" cried Helen, and as he rubbed against her
knees she patted his head with trembling hand.  "You big,
beautiful pet!  Oh, how I remember!  Oh, how Bo would love to
--"

"Where's Carmichael?" interrupted Dale.  "Out huntin' Bo?"

"Yes.  It was he who missed her first.  He rode everywhere
yesterday.  Last night when he came back he was wild.  I've
not seen him to-day.  He made all the other men but Hal and
Joe stay home on the ranch."

"Right.  An' John must stay, too," declared Dale.  "But it's
strange.  Carmichael ought to have found the girl's tracks.
She was ridin' a pony?"

"Bo rode Sam.  He's a little bronc, very strong and fast."

"I come across his tracks.  How'd Carmichael miss them?"

"He didn't.  He found them -- trailed them all along the
north range.  That's where he forbade Bo to go.  You see,
they're in love with each other.  They've been at odds.
Neither will give in.  Bo disobeyed him.  There's hard ground
off the north range, so he said.  He was able to follow her
tracks only so far."

"Were there any other tracks along with hers?"

"No."

"Miss Helen, I found them 'way southeast of Pine up on the
slope of the mountain.  There were seven other horses makin'
that trail -- when we run across it.  On the way down we
found a camp where men had waited.  An' Bo's pony, led by a
rider on a big horse, come into that camp from the east --
maybe north a little.  An' that tells the story."

"Riggs ran her down -- made off with her!" cried Helen,
passionately.  "Oh, the villain!  He had men in waiting.
That's Beasley's work.  They were after me."

"It may not be just what you said, but that's close enough.
An' Bo's in a bad fix.  You must face that an' try to bear up
under -- fears of the worst."

"My friend!  You will save her!"

"I'll fetch her back, alive or dead."

"Dead!  Oh, my God!" Helen cried, and closed her eyes an
instant, to open them burning black.  "But Bo isn't dead.  I
know that -- I feel it.  She'll not die very easy.  She's a
little savage.  She has no fear.  She'd fight like a tigress
for her life.  She's strong.  You remember how strong.  She can
stand anything.  Unless they murder her outright she'll live
-- a long time -- through any ordeal. . . .  So I beg you, my
friend, don't lose an hour -- don't ever give up!"

Dale trembled under the clasp of her hands.  Loosing his own
from her clinging hold, he stepped out on the porch. At that
moment John appeared on Ranger, coming at a gallop.

"Nell, I'll never come back without her," said Dale.  "I
reckon you can hope -- only be prepared.  That's all.  It's
hard.  But these damned deals are common out here in the
West."

"Suppose Beasley comes -- here!" exclaimed Helen, and again
her hand went out toward him.

"If he does, you refuse to get off," replied Dale.  "But
don't let him or his greasers put a dirty hand on you.
Should he threaten force -- why, pack some clothes -- an'
your valuables -- an' go down to Mrs.  Cass's.  An' wait till
I come back!"

"Wait -- till you -- come back!" she faltered, slowly
turning white again.  Her dark eyes dilated.  "Milt -- you're
like Las Vegas.  You'll kill Beasley!"

Dale heard his own laugh, very cold and strange, foreign to
his ears.  A grim, deadly hate of Beasley vied with the
tenderness and pity he felt for this distressed girl.  It was
a sore trial to see her leaning there against the door -- to
be compelled to leave her alone.  Abruptly be stalked off the
porch.  Tom followed him.  The black horse whinnied his
recognition of Dale and snorted at sight of the cougar.  Just
then the Mexican boy returned with a bag.  Dale tied this,
with the small pack, behind the saddle.

"John, you stay here with Miss Helen," said Dale.  "An' if
Carmichael comes back, keep him, too!  An' to-night, if any
one rides into Pine from the way we come, you be sure to
spot him."

"I'll do thet, Milt," responded John.

Dale mounted, and, turning for a last word to Helen, he felt
the words of cheer halted on his lips as he saw her standing
white and broken-hearted, with her hands to her bosom.  He
could not look twice.

"Come on there, you Tom," he called to the cougar.  "Reckon on
this track you'll pay me for all my trainin' of you."

"Oh, my friend!" came Helen's sad voice, almost a whisper to
his throbbing ears.  "Heaven help you -- to save her!  I --"

Then Ranger started and Dale heard no more.  He could not
look back.  His eyes were full of tears and his breast ached.
By a tremendous effort he shifted that emotion -- called on
all the spiritual energy of his being to the duty of this
grim task before him.

He did not ride down through the village, but skirted the
northern border, and worked round to the south, where,
coming to the trail he had made an hour past, he headed on
it, straight for the slope now darkening in the twilight.
The big cougar showed more willingness to return on this
trail than he had shown in the coming.  Ranger was fresh and
wanted to go, but Dale held him in.

A cool wind blew down from the mountain with the coming of
night.  Against the brightening stars Dale saw the promontory
lift its bold outline.  It was miles away.  It haunted him,
strangely calling.  A night, and perhaps a day, separated him
from the gang that held Bo Rayner prisoner.  Dale had no plan
as yet.  He had only a motive as great as the love he bore
Helen Rayner.

Beasley's evil genius had planned this abduction.  Riggs was
a tool, a cowardly knave dominated by a stronger will.  Snake
Anson and his gang had lain in wait at that cedar camp; had
made that broad hoof track leading up the mountain.  Beasley
had been there with them that very day.  All this was as
assured to Dale as if he had seen the men.

But the matter of Dale's recovering the girl and doing it
speedily strung his mental strength to its highest pitch.
Many outlines of action flashed through his mind as he rode
on, peering keenly through the night, listening with
practised ears.  All were rejected.  And at the outset of
every new branching of thought he would gaze down at the
gray form of the cougar, long, graceful, heavy, as he padded
beside the horse.  From the first thought of returning to
help Helen Rayner he had conceived an undefined idea of
possible value in the qualities of his pet.  Tom had
performed wonderful feats of trailing, but he had never been
tried on men.  Dale believed he could make him trail
anything, yet he had no proof of this.  One fact stood out of
all Dale's conjectures, and it was that he had known men,
and brave men, to fear cougars.

Far up on the slope, in a little hollow where water ran and
there was a little grass for Ranger to pick, Dale haltered
him and made ready to spend the night.  He was sparing with
his food, giving Tom more than he took himself.  Curled close
up to Dale, the big cat went to sleep.

But Dale lay awake for long.

The night was still, with only a faint moan of wind on this
sheltered slope.  Dale saw hope in the stars.  He did not seem
to have promised himself or Helen that he could save her
sister, and then her property.  He seemed to have stated
something unconsciously settled, outside of his thinking.
Strange how this certainty was not vague, yet irreconcilable
with any plans he created!  Behind it, somehow nameless with
inconceivable power, surged all his wonderful knowledge of
forest, of trails, of scents, of night, of the nature of men
lying down to sleep in the dark, lonely woods, of the nature
of this great cat that lived its every action in accordance
with his will.

He grew sleepy, and gradually his mind stilled, with his
last conscious thought a portent that he would awaken to
accomplish his desperate task.



CHAPTER XX

Young Burt possessed the keenest eyes of any man in Snake
Anson's gang, for which reason he was given the post as
lookout from the lofty promontory.  His instructions were to
keep sharp watch over the open slopes below and to report
any sight of a horse.

A cedar fire with green boughs on top of dead wood sent up a
long, pale column of smoke.  This signal-fire had been kept
burning since sunrise.

The preceding night camp had been made on a level spot in
the cedars back of the promontory.  But manifestly Anson did
not expect to remain there long.  For, after breakfast, the
packs had been made up and the horses stood saddled and
bridled.  They were restless and uneasy, tossing bits and
fighting flies.  The sun, now half-way to meridian, was hot
and no breeze blew in that sheltered spot.

Shady Jones had ridden off early to fill the water-bags, and
had not yet returned.  Anson, thinner and scalier and more
snakelike than ever, was dealing a greasy, dirty deck of
cards, his opponent being the square-shaped, black-visaged
Moze.  In lieu of money the gamblers wagered with
cedar-berries, each of which berries represented a pipeful
of tobacco.  Jim Wilson brooded under a cedar-tree, his
unshaven face a dirty dust-hue, a smoldering fire in his
light eyes, a sullen set to his jaw.  Every little while he
would raise his eyes to glance at Riggs, and it seemed that
a quick glance was enough.  Riggs paced to and fro in the
open, coatless and hatless, his black-broadcloth trousers
and embroidered vest dusty and torn.  An enormous gun bumped
awkwardly in its sheath swinging below his hip.  Riggs looked
perturbed.  His face was sweating freely, yet it was far from
red in color.  He did not appear to mind the sun or the
flies.  His eyes were staring, dark, wild, shifting in gaze
from everything they encountered.  But often that gaze shot
back to the captive girl sitting under a cedar some yards
from the man.

Bo Rayner's little, booted feet were tied together with one
end of a lasso and the other end trailed off over the
ground.  Her hands were free.  Her riding-habit was dusty and
disordered.  Her eyes blazed defiantly out of a small, pale
face.

"Harve Riggs, I wouldn't be standing in those cheap boots of
yours for a million dollars," she said, sarcastically.  Riggs
took no notice of her words.

"You pack that gun-sheath wrong end out.  What have you got
the gun for, anyhow?" she added, tauntingly.

Snake Anson let out a hoarse laugh and Moze's black visage
opened in a huge grin.  Jim Wilson seemed to drink in the
girl's words.  Sullen and somber, he bent his lean head, very
still, as if listening.

"You'd better shut up," said Riggs, darkly.

"I will not shut up," declared Bo.

"Then I'll gag you," he threatened.

"Gag me!  Why, you dirty, low-down, two-bit of a bluff!" she
exclaimed, hotly, "I'd like to see you try it.  I'll tear
that long hair of yours right off your head."

Riggs advanced toward her with his hands clutching, as if
eager to throttle her.  The girl leaned forward, her face
reddening, her eyes fierce.

"You damned little cat!" muttered Riggs, thickly.  "I'll gag
you -- if you don't stop squallin'."

"Come on.  I dare you to lay a hand on me. . . .  Harve Riggs,
I'm not the least afraid of you.  Can't you savvy that?
You're a liar, a four-flush, a sneak!  Why, you're not fit to
wipe the feet of any of these outlaws."

Riggs took two long strides and bent over her, his teeth
protruding in a snarl, and he cuffed her hard on the side of
the head.

Bo's head jerked back with the force of the blow, but she
uttered no cry.

"Are you goin' to keep your jaw shut?" he demanded,
stridently, and a dark tide of blood surged up into his
neck.

"I should smile I'm not," retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate
anger of opposition.  "You've roped me -- and you've struck
me!  Now get a club -- stand off there -- out of my reach --
and beat me!  Oh, if I only knew cuss words fit for you --
I'd call you them!"

Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching,
listening, with half-disgusted, half-amused expression on
his serpent-like face.  Jim Wilson slowly rose to his feet.
If any one had observed him it would have been to note that
he now seemed singularly fascinated by this scene, yet all
the while absorbed in himself.  Once he loosened the
neck-band of his blouse.

Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl.  But she
dodged.

"You dog!" she hissed.  "Oh, if I only had a gun!"

Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of
flame, held a tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into
remonstrance.

"Aw, Riggs, don't beat up the kid," he protested.  "Thet
won't do any good.  Let her alone."

"But she's got to shut up," replied Riggs.

"How 'n hell air you goin' to shet her up?  Mebbe if you get
out of her sight she'll be quiet. . . .  How about thet,
girl?"

Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.

"Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?" she queried.

"It strikes me you 'ain't," replied Anson.

"You won't hear me make any so long as I'm treated decent,"
said Bo.  "I don't know what you've got to do with Riggs.  He
ran me down -- roped me -- dragged me to your camp.  Now I've
a hunch you're waiting for Beasley."

"Girl, your hunch 's correct," said Anson.

"Well, do you know I'm the wrong girl?"

"What's thet?  I reckon you're Nell Rayner, who got left all
old Auchincloss's property."

"No.  I'm Bo Rayner.  Nell is my sister.  She owns the ranch.
Beasley wanted her."

Anson cursed deep and low.  Under his sharp, bristling
eyebrows he bent cunning green eyes upon Riggs.

"Say, you!  Is what this kid says so?"

"Yes.  She's Nell Rayner's sister," replied Riggs, doggedly.

"A-huh!  Wal, why in the hell did you drag her into my camp
an' off up here to signal Beasley?  He ain't wantin' her.  He
wants the girl who owns the ranch.  Did you take one fer the
other -- same as thet day we was with you?"

"Guess I must have," replied Riggs, sullenly.

"But you knowed her from her sister afore you come to my
camp?"

Riggs shook his head.  He was paler now and sweating more
freely.  The dank hair hung wet over his forehead.  His manner
was that of a man suddenly realizing he had gotten into a
tight place.

"Oh, he's a liar!" exclaimed Bo, with contemptuous ring in
her voice.  "He comes from my country.  He has known Nell and
me for years."

Snake Anson turned to look at Wilson.

"Jim, now hyar's a queer deal this feller has rung in on us.
I thought thet kid was pretty young.  Don't you remember
Beasley told us Nell Rayner was a handsome woman?"

"Wal, pard Anson, if this heah gurl ain't handsome my eyes
have gone pore," drawled Wilson.

"A-huh!  So your Texas chilvaree over the ladies is some
operatin'," retorted Anson, with fine sarcasm.  "But thet
ain't tellin' me what you think?"

"Wal, I ain't tellin' you what I think yet.  But I know thet
kid ain't Nell Rayner.  For I've seen her."

Anson studied his right-hand man for a moment, then, taking
out his tobacco-pouch, he sat himself down upon a stone and
proceeded leisurely to roll a cigarette.  He put it between
his thin lips and apparently forgot to light it.  For a few
moments he gazed at the yellow ground and some scant
sage-brush.  Riggs took to pacing up and down.  Wilson leaned
as before against the cedar.  The girl slowly recovered from
her excess of anger.

"Kid, see hyar," said Anson, addressing the girl; "if Riggs
knowed you wasn't Nell an' fetched you along anyhow -- what
'd he do thet fur?"

"He chased me -- caught me.  Then he saw some one after us
and he hurried to your camp.  He was afraid -- the cur!"

Riggs heard her reply, for he turned a malignant glance upon
her.

"Anson, I fetched her because I know Nell Rayner will give
up anythin' on earth for her," he said, in loud voice.

Anson pondered this statement with an air of considering its
apparent sincerity.

"Don't you believe him," declared Bo Rayner, bluntly.  "He's
a liar.  He's double-crossing Beasley and all of you."

Riggs raised a shaking hand to clench it at her.  "Keep still
or it 'll be the worse for you."

"Riggs, shut up yourself," put in Anson, as he leisurely
rose.  "Mebbe it 'ain't occurred to you thet she might have
some talk interestin' to me.  An' I'm runnin' this hyar camp.
. . .  Now, kid, talk up an' say what you like."

"I said he was double-crossing you all," replied the girl,
instantly.  "Why, I'm surprised you'd be caught in his
company!  My uncle Al and my sweetheart Carmichael and my
friend Dale -- they've all told me what Western men are,
even down to outlaws, robbers, cutthroat rascals like you.
And I know the West well enough now to be sure that
four-flush doesn't belong here and can't last here.  He went
to Dodge City once and when he came back he made a bluff at
being a bad man.  He was a swaggering, bragging, drinking
gun-fighter.  He talked of the men he'd shot, of the fights
he'd had.  He dressed like some of those gun-throwing
gamblers. . . .  He was in love with my sister Nell.  She
hated him.  He followed us out West and he has hung on our
actions like a sneaking Indian.  Why, Nell and I couldn't
even walk to the store in the village.  He rode after me out
on the range -- chased me. . . .  For that Carmichael called
Riggs's bluff down in Turner's saloon.  Dared him to draw!
Cussed him every name on the range!  Slapped and beat and
kicked him!  Drove him out of Pine!  . . .  And now, whatever
he has said to Beasley or you, it's a dead sure bet he's
playing his own game.  That's to get hold of Nell, and if not
her -- then me!  . . .  Oh, I'm out of breath -- and I'm out
of names to call him.  If I talked forever -- I'd never be --
able to -- do him justice.  But lend me -- a gun -- a
minute!"

Jim Wilson's quiet form vibrated with a start.  Anson with
his admiring smile pulled his gun and, taking a couple of
steps forward, held it out butt first.  She stretched eagerly
for it and he jerked it away.

"Hold on there!" yelled Riggs, in alarm.

"Damme, Jim, if she didn't mean bizness!" exclaimed the
outlaw.

"Wal, now -- see heah, Miss.  Would you bore him -- if you
hed a gun?" inquired Wilson, with curious interest.  There
was more of respect in his demeanor than admiration.

"No.  I don't want his cowardly blood on my hands," replied
the girl.  "But I'd make him dance -- I'd make him run."

"Shore you can handle a gun?"

She nodded her answer while her eyes flashed hate and her
resolute lips twitched.

Then Wilson made a singularly swift motion and his gun was
pitched butt first to within a foot of her hand.  She
snatched it up, cocked it, aimed it, all before Anson could
move.  But he yelled:

"Drop thet gun, you little devil!"

Riggs turned ghastly as the big blue gun lined on him.  He
also yelled, but that yell was different from Anson's.

"Run or dance!" cried the girl.

The big gun boomed and leaped almost out of her hand.  She
took both hands, and called derisively as she fired again.
The second bullet hit at Riggs's feet, scattering the dust
and fragments of stone all over him.  He bounded here --
there -- then darted for the rocks.  A third time the heavy
gun spoke and this bullet must have ticked Riggs, for he let
out a hoarse bawl and leaped sheer for the protection of a
rock.

"Plug him!  Shoot off a leg!" yelled Snake Anson, whooping
and stamping, as Riggs got out of sight.

Jim Wilson watched the whole performance with the same
quietness that had characterized his manner toward the girl.
Then, as Riggs disappeared, Wilson stepped forward and took
the gun from the girl's trembling hands.  She was whiter than
ever, but still resolute and defiant.  Wilson took a glance
over in the direction Riggs had hidden and then proceeded to
reload the gun.  Snake Anson's roar of laughter ceased rather
suddenly.

"Hyar, Jim, she might have held up the whole gang with thet
gun," he protested.

"I reckon she 'ain't nothin' ag'in' us," replied Wilson.

"A-huh!  You know a lot about wimmen now, don't you?  But thet
did my heart good.  Jim, what 'n earth would you have did if
thet 'd been you instead of Riggs?"

The query seemed important and amazing.  Wilson pondered.

"Shore I'd stood there -- stock-still -- an' never moved an
eye-winker."

"An' let her shoot!" ejaculated Anson, nodding his long
head.  "Me, too!"

So these rough outlaws, inured to all the violence and
baseness of their dishonest calling, rose to the challenging
courage of a slip of a girl.  She had the one thing they
respected -- nerve.

Just then a halloo, from the promontory brought Anson up
with a start.  Muttering to himself, he strode out toward the
jagged rocks that hid the outlook.  Moze shuffled his burly
form after Anson.

"Miss, it shore was grand -- thet performance of Mister
Gunman Riggs," remarked Jim Wilson, attentively studying the
girl.

"Much obliged to you for lending me your gun," she replied.
"I -- I hope I hit him -- a little."

"Wal, if you didn't sting him, then Jim Wilson knows nothin'
about lead."

"Jim Wilson?  Are you the man -- the outlaw my uncle Al
knew?"

"Reckon I am, miss.  Fer I knowed Al shore enough.  What 'd he
say aboot me?"

"I remember once he was telling me about Snake Anson's gang.
He mentioned you.  Said you were a real gun-fighter.  And what
a shame it was you had to be an outlaw."

"Wal!  An' so old Al spoke thet nice of me. . . .  It's
tolerable likely I'll remember.  An' now, miss, can I do
anythin' for you?"

Swift as a flash she looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Wal, shore I don't mean much, I'm sorry to say.  Nothin' to
make you look like thet. . . .  I hev to be an outlaw, shore
as you're born.  But -- mebbe there's a difference in
outlaws."

She understood him and paid him the compliment not to voice
her sudden upflashing hope that he might be one to betray
his leader.

"Please take this rope off my feet.  Let me walk a little.
Let me have a -- a little privacy.  That fool watched every
move I made.  I promise not to run away.  And, oh!  I'm
thirsty."

"Shore you've got sense." He freed her feet and helped her
get up.  "There'll be some fresh water any minit now, if
you'll wait."

Then he turned his back and walked over to where Riggs sat
nursing a bullet-burn on his leg.

"Say, Riggs, I'm takin' the responsibility of loosin' the
girl for a little spell.  She can't get away.  An' there ain't
any sense in bein' mean."

Riggs made no reply, and went on rolling down his trousers
leg, lapped a fold over at the bottom and pulled on his
boot.  Then he strode out toward the promontory.  Half-way
there he encountered Anson tramping back.

"Beasley's comin' one way an' Shady's comin' another.  We'll
be off this hot point of rock by noon," said the outlaw
leader.

Riggs went on to the promontory to look for himself.

"Where's the girl?" demanded Anson, in surprise, when he got
back to the camp.

"Wal, she's walkin' 'round between heah an' Pine," drawled
Wilson.

"Jim, you let her loose?"

"Shore I did.  She's been hawg-tied all the time.  An' she
said she'd not run off.  I'd take thet girl's word even to a
sheep-thief."

"A-huh.  So would I, for all of thet.  But, Jim, somethin's
workin' in you.  Ain't you sort of rememberin' a time when
you was young -- an' mebbe knowed pretty kids like this
one?"

"Wal, if I am it 'll shore turn out bad fer somebody."

Anson gave him a surprised stare and suddenly lost the
bantering tone.

"A-huh!  So thet's how it's workin'," he replied, and flung
himself down in the shade.

Young Burt made his appearance then, wiping his sallow face.
His deep-set, hungry eyes, upon which his comrades set such
store, roved around the camp.

"Whar's the gurl?" he queried.

"Jim let her go out fer a stroll," replied Anson.

"I seen Jim was gittin' softy over her.  Haw!  Haw!  Haw!"

But Snake Anson did not crack a smile.  The atmosphere
appeared not to be congenial for jokes, a fact Burt rather
suddenly divined.  Riggs and Moze returned from the
promontory, the latter reporting that Shady Jones was riding
up close.  Then the girl walked slowly into sight and
approached to find a seat within ten yards of the group.
They waited in silence until the expected horseman rode up
with water-bottles slung on both sides of his saddle.  His
advent was welcome.  All the men were thirsty.  Wilson took
water to the girl before drinking himself.

"Thet's an all-fired hot ride fer water," declared the
outlaw Shady, who somehow fitted his name in color and
impression.  "An', boss, if it's the same to you I won't take
it ag'in."

"Cheer up, Shady.  We'll be rustlin' back in the mountains
before sundown," said Anson.

"Hang me if that ain't the cheerfulest news I've hed in some
days.  Hey, Moze?"

The black-faced Moze nodded his shaggy head.

"I'm sick an' sore of this deal," broke out Burt, evidently
encouraged by his elders.  "Ever since last fall we've been
hangin' 'round -- till jest lately freezin' in camps -- no
money -- no drink -- no grub wuth havin'.  All on promises!"

Not improbably this young and reckless member of the gang
had struck the note of discord.  Wilson seemed most detached
from any sentiment prevailing there.  Some strong thoughts
were revolving in his brain.

"Burt, you ain't insinuatin' thet I made promises?" inquired
Anson, ominously.

"No, boss, I ain't.  You allus said we might hit it rich.  But
them promises was made to you.  An' it 'd be jest like thet
greaser to go back on his word now we got the gurl."

"Son, it happens we got the wrong one.  Our long-haired pard
hyar -- Mister Riggs -- him with the big gun -- he waltzes
up with this sassy kid instead of the woman Beasley wanted."

Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly
swearing, pelted the smoldering camp-fire with stones.  Then
they all lapsed into surly silence.  The object of their
growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little way apart, facing none of
them, but maintaining as bold a front as apparently he could
muster.

Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of
scent or sound imperceptible to the men.  But with this cue
they all, except Wilson, sat up attentively.  Soon the crack
of iron-shod hoofs on stone broke the silence.  Riggs
nervously rose to his feet.  And the others, still excepting
Wilson, one by one followed suit.  In another moment a rangy
bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his
rider jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.

"Howdy, Beasley?" was Anson's greeting.

"Hello, Snake, old man!" replied Beasley, as his bold,
snapping black eyes swept the group.  He was dusty and hot,
and wet with sweat, yet evidently too excited to feel
discomfort.  "I seen your smoke signal first off an' jumped
my hoss quick.  But I rode north of Pine before I headed
'round this way.  Did you corral the girl or did Riggs?  Say!
-- you look queer!  . . .  What's wrong here?  You haven't
signaled me for nothin'?"

Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.

"Come out of the shade.  Let him look you over."

The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had
hidden her from sight.

Beasley stared aghast -- his jaw dropped.

"Thet's the kid sister of the woman I wanted!" he
ejaculated.

"So we've jest been told."

Astonishment still held Beasley.

"Told?" he echoed.  Suddenly his big body leaped with a
start.  "Who got her?  Who fetched her?"

"Why, Mister Gunman Riggs hyar," replied Anson, with a
subtle scorn.

"Riggs, you got the wrong girl," shouted Beasley.  "You made
thet mistake once before.  What're you up to?"

"I chased her an' when I got her, seein' it wasn't Nell
Rayner -- why -- I kept her, anyhow," replied Riggs.  "An'
I've got a word for your ear alone."

"Man, you're crazy -- queerin' my deal thet way!" roared
Beasley.  "You heard my plans. . . .  Riggs, this
girl-stealin' can't be done twice.  Was you drinkin' or
locoed or what?"

"Beasley, he was giving you the double-cross," cut in Bo
Rayner's cool voice.

The rancher stared speechlessly at her, then at Anson, then
at Wilson, and last at Riggs, when his brown visage shaded
dark with rush of purple blood.  With one lunge he knocked
Riggs flat, then stood over him with a convulsive hand at
his gun.

"You white-livered card-sharp!  I've a notion to bore you. . . .
They told me you had a deal of your own, an' now I
believe it."

"Yes -- I had," replied Riggs, cautiously getting up.  He was
ghastly.  "But I wasn't double-crossin' you.  Your deal was to
get the girl away from home so you could take possession of
her property.  An' I wanted her."

"What for did you fetch the sister, then?" demanded Beasley,
his big jaw bulging.

"Because I've a plan to --"

"Plan hell!  You've spoiled my plan an' I've seen about
enough of you." Beasley breathed hard; his lowering gaze
boded an uncertain will toward the man who had crossed him;
his hand still hung low and clutching.

"Beasley, tell them to get my horse.  I want to go home,"
said Bo Rayner.

Slowly Beasley turned.  Her words enjoined a silence.  What to
do with her now appeared a problem.

"I had nothin' to do with fetchin' you here an' I'll have
nothin' to do with sendin' you back or whatever's done with
you," declared Beasley.

Then the girl's face flashed white again and her eyes
changed to fire.

"You're as big a liar as Riggs," she cried, passionately.
"And you're a thief, a bully who picks on defenseless girls.
Oh, we know your game!  Milt Dale heard your plot with this
outlaw Anson to steal my sister.  You ought to be hanged --
you half-breed greaser!"

"I'll cut out your tongue!" hissed Beasley.

"Yes, I'll bet you would if you had me alone.  But these
outlaws -- these sheep-thieves -- these tools you hire are
better than you and Riggs. . . .  What do you suppose
Carmichael will do to you?  Carmichael!  He's my sweetheart --
that cowboy.  You know what he did to Riggs.  Have you brains
enough to know what he'll do to you?"

"He'll not do much," growled Beasley.  But the thick purplish
blood was receding from his face.  "Your cowpuncher --"

"Bah!" she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his
face.  "He's from Texas!  He's from TEXAS!"

"Supposin' he is from Texas?" demanded Beasley, in angry
irritation.  "What's thet?  Texans are all over.  There's Jim
Wilson, Snake Anson's right-hand man.  He's from Texas.  But
thet ain't scarin' any one."

He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to
foot.  The girl's flaming glance followed his hand.

"Are you from Texas?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss, I am -- an' I reckon I don't deserve it,"
replied Wilson.  It was certain that a vague shame attended
his confession.

"Oh!  I believed even a bandit from Texas would fight for a
helpless girl!" she replied, in withering scorn of
disappointment.

Jim Wilson dropped his head.  If any one there suspected a
serious turn to Wilson's attitude toward that situation it
was the keen outlaw leader.

"Beasley, you're courtin' death," he broke in.

"You bet you are!" added Bo, with a passion that made her
listeners quiver.  "You've put me at the mercy of a gang of
outlaws!  You may force my sister out of her home!  But your
day will come.' Tom Carmichael will KILL you."

Beasley mounted his horse.  Sullen, livid, furious, he sat
shaking in the saddle, to glare down at the outlaw leader.

"Snake, thet's no fault of mine the deal's miscarried.  I was
square.  I made my offer for the workin' out of my plan.  It
'ain't been done.  Now there's hell to pay an' I'm through."

"Beasley, I reckon I couldn't hold you to anythin'," replied
Anson, slowly.  "But if you was square you ain't square now.
We've hung around an' tried hard.  My men are all sore.  An'
we're broke, with no outfit to speak of.  Me an' you never
fell out before.  But I reckon we might."

"Do I owe you any money -- accordin' to the deal?" demanded
Beasley.

"No, you don't," responded Anson, sharply.

"Then thet's square.  I wash my hands of the whole deal.  Make
Riggs pay up.  He's got money an' he's got plans.  Go in with
him."

With that Beasley spurred his horse, wheeled and rode away.
The outlaws gazed after him until he disappeared in the
cedars.

"What'd you expect from a greaser?" queried Shady Jones.

"Anson, didn't I say so?" added Burt.

The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and
Jim Wilson studiously examined a stick he held in his hands.
Riggs showed immense relief.

"Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an' I'll ride off
with the girl," he said, eagerly.

"Where'd you go now?" queried Anson, curiously.

Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were
no more equal to this predicament than his nerve.

"You're no woodsman.  An' onless you're plumb locoed you'd
never risk goin' near Pine or Show Down.  There'll be real
trackers huntin' your trail."

The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.

"Don't let him take me off -- alone -- in the woods!" she
faltered.  That was the first indication of her weakening.

Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply.  "I'm not bossin' this
gang."

"But you're a man!" she importuned.

"Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an' come
with us," said Anson, craftily.  "I'm particular curious to
see her brand you."

"Snake, lemme take the girl back to Pine," said Jim Wilson.

Anson swore his amaze.

"It's sense," continued Wilson.  "We've shore got our own
troubles, an' keepin' her 'll only add to them.  I've a
hunch.  Now you know I ain't often givin' to buckin' your
say-so.  But this deal ain't tastin' good to me.  Thet girl
ought to be sent home."

"But mebbe there's somethin' in it for us.  Her sister 'd pay
to git her back."

"Wal, I shore hope you'll recollect I offered -- thet's
all," concluded Wilson.

"Jim, if we wanted to git rid of her we'd let Riggs take her
off," remonstrated the outlaw leader.  He was perturbed and
undecided.  Wilson worried him.

The long Texan veered around full faced.  What subtle
transformation in him!

"Like hell we would!" he said.

It could not have been the tone that caused Anson to quail.
He might have been leader here, but he was not the greater
man.  His face clouded.

"Break camp," he ordered.

Riggs had probably not heard that last exchange between
Anson and Wilson, for he had walked a few rods aside to get
his horse.

In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and
Moze were in the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode
next, the girl came between him and Riggs, and
significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the rear.

This start was made a little after the noon hour.  They
zigzagged up the slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed
it up to where it headed in the level forest.  From there
travel was rapid, the pack-horses being driven at a jogtrot.
Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket into a
glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the
cavalcade.  His well-aimed shot brought down a deer.  Then the
men rode on, leaving him behind to dress and pack the meat.
The only other halt made was at the crossing of the first
water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses and men drank
thirstily.  Here Burt caught up with his comrades.

They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail
through the deepening forest, and climbed, bench after
bench, to higher ground, while the sun sloped to the
westward, lower and redder.  Sunset had gone, and twilight
was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson,
breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt.

The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark
slopes of spruce.  Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in
abundance.  All the men were off, throwing saddles and packs,
before the tired girl made an effort to get down.  Riggs,
observing her, made a not ungentle move to pull her off.  She
gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand.

"Keep your paws to yourself," she said.  No evidence of
exhaustion was there in her spirit.

Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not.

"What come off?" he asked.

"Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the
lady -- as he was doin' the elegant," replied Moze, who
stood nearest.

"Jim, was you watchin'?" queried Anson.  His curiosity had
held through the afternoon.

"He tried to yank her off an' she biffed him," replied
Wilson.

"That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed," said Snake, in
an aside to Moze.

"Boss, you mean plain cussed.  Mark my words, he'll hoodoo
this outfit.  Jim was figgerin' correct."

"Hoodoo --" cursed Anson, under his breath.

Many hands made quick work.  In a few moments a fire was
burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the
odor of venison permeated the cool air.  The girl had at last
slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while
Riggs led the horse away.  She sat there apparently
forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.

Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among
the spruces.  One by one they fell with swish and soft crash.
Then the sliding ring of the ax told how he was slicing off
the branches with long sweeps.  Presently he appeared in the
semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed spruces behind him.  He
made several trips, the last of which was to stagger under a
huge burden of spruce boughs.  These he spread under a low,
projecting branch of an aspen.  Then he leaned the bushy
spruces slantingly against this branch on both sides,
quickly improvising a V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture
in front.  Next from one of the packs he took a blanket and
threw that inside the shelter.  Then, touching the girl on
the shoulder, he whispered:

"When you're ready, slip in there.  An' don't lose no sleep
by worryin', fer I'll be layin' right here."

He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of
the narrow aperture.

"Oh, thank you!  Maybe you really are a Texan," she whispered
back.

"Mebbe," was his gloomy reply.



CHAPTER XXI

The girl refused to take food proffered her by Riggs, but
she ate and drank a little that Wilson brought her, then she
disappeared in the spruce lean-to.

Whatever loquacity and companionship had previously existed
in Snake Anson's gang were not manifest in this camp.  Each
man seemed preoccupied, as if pondering the dawn in his mind
of an ill omen not clear to him yet and not yet dreamed of
by his fellows.  They all smoked.  Then Moze and Shady played
cards awhile by the light of the fire, but it was a dull
game, in which either seldom spoke.  Riggs sought his blanket
first, and the fact was significant that he lay down some
distance from the spruce shelter which contained Bo Rayner.
Presently young Burt went off grumbling to his bed.  And not
long afterward the card-players did likewise.

Snake Anson and Jim Wilson were left brooding in silence
beside the dying camp-fire.

The night was dark, with only a few stars showing.  A fitful
wind moaned unearthly through the spruce.  An occasional
thump of hoof sounded from the dark woods.  No cry of wolf or
coyote or cat gave reality to the wildness of forest-land.

By and by those men who had rolled in their blankets were
breathing deep and slow in heavy slumber.

"Jim, I take it this hyar Riggs has queered our deal," said
Snake Anson, in low voice.

"I reckon," replied Wilson.

"An' I'm feared he's queered this hyar White Mountain
country fer us."

"Shore I 'ain't got so far as thet.  What d' ye mean, Snake?"

"Damme if I savvy," was the gloomy reply.  "I only know what
was bad looks growin' wuss.  Last fall -- an' winter -- an'
now it's near April.  We've got no outfit to make a long
stand in the woods. . . .  Jim, jest how strong is thet
Beasley down in the settlements?"

"I've a hunch he ain't half as strong as he bluffs."

"Me, too.  I got thet idee yesterday.  He was scared of the
kid -- when she fired up an' sent thet hot-shot about her
cowboy sweetheart killin' him.  He'll do it, Jim.  I seen that
Carmichael at Magdalena some years ago.  Then he was only a
youngster.  But, whew!  Mebbe he wasn't bad after toyin' with
a little red liquor."

"Shore.  He was from Texas, she said."

"Jim, I savvied your feelin's was hurt -- by thet talk about
Texas -- an' when she up an' asked you."

Wilson had no rejoinder for this remark.

"Wal, Lord knows, I ain't wonderin'.  You wasn't a hunted
outlaw all your life.  An' neither was I. . . .  Wilson, I
never was keen on this girl deal -- now, was I?"

"I reckon it's honest to say no to thet," replied Wilson.
"But it's done.  Beasley 'll get plugged sooner or later.  Thet
won't help us any.  Chasin' sheep-herders out of the country
an' stealin' sheep -- thet ain't stealin' gurls by a long
sight.  Beasley 'll blame that on us, an' be greaser enough
to send some of his men out to hunt us.  For Pine an' Show
Down won't stand thet long.  There's them Mormons.  They'll be
hell when they wake up.  Suppose Carmichael got thet hunter
Dale an' them hawk-eyed Beemans on our trail?"

"Wal, we'd cash in -- quick," replied Anson, gruffly.

"Then why didn't you let me take the gurl back home?"

"Wal, come to think of thet, Jim, I'm sore, an' I need money
-- an' I knowed you'd never take a dollar from her sister.
An' I've made up my mind to git somethin' out of her."

"Snake, you're no fool.  How 'll you do thet same an' do it
quick?"

"'Ain't reckoned it out yet."

"Wal, you got aboot to-morrer an' thet's all," returned
Wilson, gloomily.

"Jim, what's ailin' you?"

"I'll let you figger thet out."

"Wal, somethin' ails the whole gang," declared Anson,
savagely.  "With them it's nothin' to eat -- no whisky -- no
money to bet with -- no tobacco!. . .  But thet's not what's
ailin' you, Jim Wilson, nor me!"

"Wal, what is, then?" queried Wilson.

"With me it's a strange feelin' thet my day's over on these
ranges.  I can't explain, but it jest feels so.  Somethin' in
the air.  I don't like them dark shadows out there under the
spruces.  Savvy?  . . .  An' as fer you, Jim -- wal, you allus
was half decent, an' my gang's got too lowdown fer you."

"Snake, did I ever fail you?"

"No, you never did.  You're the best pard I ever knowed.  In
the years we've rustled together we never had a contrary
word till I let Beasley fill my ears with his promises.
Thet's my fault.  But, Jim, it's too late."

"It mightn't have been too late yesterday."

"Mebbe not.  But it is now, an' I'll hang on to the girl or
git her worth in gold," declared the outlaw, grimly.

"Snake, I've seen stronger gangs than yours come an' go.
Them Big Bend gangs in my country -- them rustlers -- they
were all bad men.  You have no likes of them gangs out heah.
If they didn't get wiped out by Rangers or cowboys, why they
jest naturally wiped out themselves.  Thet's a law I
recognize in relation to gangs like them.  An' as for yours
-- why, Anson, it wouldn't hold water against one real
gun-slinger."

"A-huh' Then if we ran up ag'in' Carmichael or some such
fellar -- would you be suckin' your finger like a baby?"

"Wal, I wasn't takin' count of myself.  I was takin'
generalities."

"Aw, what 'n hell are them?" asked Anson, disgustedly.  "Jim,
I know as well as you thet this hyar gang is hard put.  We're
goin' to be trailed an' chased.  We've got to hide -- be on
the go all the time -- here an' there -- all over, in the
roughest woods.  An' wait our chance to work south."

"Shore.  But, Snake, you ain't takin' no count of the
feelin's of the men -- an' of mine an' yours. . . .  I'll bet
you my hoss thet in a day or so this gang will go to
pieces."

"I'm feared you spoke what's been crowdin' to git in my
mind," replied Anson.  Then he threw up his hands in a
strange gesture of resignation.  The outlaw was brave, but
all men of the wilds recognized a force stronger than
themselves.  He sat there resembling a brooding snake with
basilisk eyes upon the fire.  At length he arose, and without
another word to his comrade he walked wearily to where lay
the dark, quiet forms of the sleepers.

Jim Wilson remained beside the flickering fire.  He was
reading something in the red embers, perhaps the past.
Shadows were on his face, not all from the fading flames or
the towering spruces.  Ever and anon he raised his head to
listen, not apparently that he expected any unusual sound,
but as if involuntarily.  Indeed, as Anson had said, there
was something nameless in the air.  The black forest breathed
heavily, in fitful moans of wind.  It had its secrets.  The
glances Wilson threw on all sides betrayed that any hunted
man did not love the dark night, though it hid him.  Wilson
seemed fascinated by the life inclosed there by the black
circle of spruce.  He might have been reflecting on the
strange reaction happening to every man in that group, since
a girl had been brought among them.  Nothing was clear,
however; the forest kept its secret, as did the melancholy
wind; the outlaws were sleeping like tired beasts, with
their dark secrets locked in their hearts.

After a while Wilson put some sticks on the red embers, then
pulled the end of a log over them.  A blaze sputtered up,
changing the dark circle and showing the sleepers with their
set, shadowed faces upturned.  Wilson gazed on all of them, a
sardonic smile on his lips, and then his look fixed upon the
sleeper apart from the others -- Riggs.  It might have been
the false light of flame and shadow that created Wilson's
expression of dark and terrible hate.  Or it might have been
the truth, expressed in that lonely, unguarded hour, from
the depths of a man born in the South -- a man who by his
inheritance of race had reverence for all womanhood -- by
whose strange, wild, outlawed bloody life of a gun-fighter
he must hate with the deadliest hate this type that aped and
mocked his fame.

It was a long gaze Wilson rested upon Riggs -- as strange
and secretive as the forest wind moaning down the great
aisles -- and when that dark gaze was withdrawn Wilson
stalked away to make his bed with the stride of one ill whom
spirit had liberated force.

He laid his saddle in front of the spruce shelter where the
girl had entered, and his tarpaulin and blankets likewise
and then wearily stretched his long length to rest.

The camp-fire blazed up, showing the exquisite green and
brown-flecked festooning of the spruce branches, symmetrical
and perfect, yet so irregular, and then it burned out and
died down, leaving all in the dim gray starlight.  The horses
were not moving around; the moan of night wind had grown
fainter; the low hum of insects was dying away; even the
tinkle of the brook had diminished.  And that growth toward
absolute silence continued, yet absolute silence was never
attained.  Life abided in the forest; only it had changed its
form for the dark hours.


Anson's gang did not bestir themselves at the usual early
sunrise hour common to all woodsmen, hunters, or outlaws, to
whom the break of day was welcome.  These companions -- Anson
and Riggs included -- might have hated to see the dawn come.
It meant only another meager meal, then the weary packing
and the long, long ride to nowhere in particular, and
another meager meal -- all toiled for without even the
necessities of satisfactory living, and assuredly without
the thrilling hopes that made their life significant, and
certainly with a growing sense of approaching calamity.

The outlaw leader rose surly and cross-grained.  He had to
boot Burt to drive him out for the horses.  Riggs followed
him.  Shady Jones did nothing except grumble.  Wilson, by
common consent, always made the sour-dough bread, and he was
slow about it this morning.  Anson and Moze did the rest of
the work, without alacrity.  The girl did not appear.

"Is she dead?" growled Anson.

"No, she ain't," replied Wilson, looking up.  "She's
sleepin'.  Let her sleep.  She'd shore be a sight better off
if she was daid."

"A-huh!  So would all of this hyar outfit," was Anson's
response.

"Wal, Sna-ake, I shore reckon we'll all be thet there soon,"
drawled Wilson, in his familiar cool and irritating tone
that said so much more than the content of the words.

Anson did not address the Texas member of his party again.

Burt rode bareback into camp, driving half the number of the
horses; Riggs followed shortly with several more.  But three
were missed, one of them being Anson's favorite.  He would
not have budged without that horse.  During breakfast he
growled about his lazy men, and after the meal tried to urge
them off.  Riggs went unwillingly.  Burt refused to go at all.

"Nix.  I footed them hills all I'm a-goin' to," he said.  "An'
from now on I rustle my own hoss."

The leader glared his reception of this opposition.  Perhaps
his sense of fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered
Shady and Moze out to do their share.

"Jim, you're the best tracker in this outfit.  Suppose you
go," suggested Anson.  "You allus used to be the first one
off."

"Times has changed, Snake," was the imperturbable reply.

"Wal, won't you go?" demanded the leader, impatiently.

"I shore won't."

Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not
leave the girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson's
gang, but the truth was as significant as if he had shouted
it.  The slow-thinking Moze gave Wilson a sinister look.

"Boss, ain't it funny how a pretty wench --?" began Shady
Jones, sarcastically.

"Shut up, you fool!" broke in Anson.  "Come on, I'll help
rustle them hosses."

After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off
into the forest.  Then the girl appeared.  Her hair was down,
her face pale, with dark shadows.  She asked for water to
wash her face.  Wilson pointed to the brook, and as she
walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean scarf
from his pack and carried them to her.

Upon her return to the camp-fire she looked very different
with her hair arranged and the red stains in her cheeks.

"Miss, air you hungry?" asked Wilson.

"Yes, I am," she replied.

He helped her to portions of bread, venison and gravy, and a
cup of coffee.  Evidently she relished the meat, but she had
to force down the rest.

"Where are they all?" she asked.

"Rustlin' the hosses."

Probably she divined that he did not want to talk, for the
fleeting glance she gave him attested to a thought that his
voice or demeanor had changed.  Presently she sought a seat
under the aspen-tree, out of the sun, and the smoke
continually blowing in her face; and there she stayed, a
forlorn little figure, for all the resolute lips and defiant
eyes.

The Texan paced to and fro beside the camp-fire with bent
head, and hands locked behind him.  But for the swinging gun
he would have resembled a lanky farmer, coatless and
hatless, with his brown vest open, his trousers stuck in the
top of the high boots.

And neither he nor the girl changed their positions
relatively for a long time.  At length, however, after
peering into the woods, and listening, he remarked to the
girl that he would be back in a moment, and then walked off
around the spruces.

No sooner had he disappeared -- in fact, so quickly
after-ward that it presupposed design instead of accident --
than Riggs came running from the opposite side of the glade.
He ran straight to the girl, who sprang to her feet.

"I hid -- two of the -- horses," he panted, husky with
excitement.  "I'll take -- two saddles.  You grab some grub.
We'll run for it."

"No," she cried, stepping back.

"But it's not safe -- for us -- here," he said, hurriedly,
glancing all around.  "I'll take you -- home.  I swear. . . .
Not safe -- I tell you -- this gang's after me.  Hurry!"

He laid hold of two saddles, one with each hand.  The moment
had reddened his face, brightened his eyes, made his action
strong.

"I'm safer -- here with this outlaw gang," she replied.

"You won't come!" His color began to lighten then, and his
face to distort.  He dropped his hold on the saddles.

"Harve Riggs, I'd rather become a toy and a rag for these
ruffians than spend an hour alone with you," she flashed at
him, in unquenchable hate.

"I'll drag you!"

He seized her, but could not hold her.  Breaking away, she
screamed.

"Help!"

That whitened his face, drove him to frenzy.  Leaping
forward, he struck her a hard blow across the mouth.  It
staggered her, and, tripping on a saddle, she fell.  His
hands flew to her throat, ready to choke her.  But she lay
still and held her tongue.  Then he dragged her to her feet.

"Hurry now -- grab that pack -- an' follow me." Again Riggs
laid hold of the two saddles.  A desperate gleam, baleful and
vainglorious, flashed over his face.  He was living his one
great adventure.

The girl's eyes dilated.  They looked beyond him.  Her lips
opened.

"Scream again an' I'll kill you!" he cried, hoarsely and
swiftly.  The very opening of her lips had terrified Riggs.

"Reckon one scream was enough," spoke a voice, slow, but
without the drawl, easy and cool, yet incalculable in some
terrible sense.

Riggs wheeled with inarticulate cry.  Wilson stood a few
paces off, with his gun half leveled, low down.  His face
seemed as usual, only his eyes held a quivering, light
intensity, like boiling molten silver.

"Girl, what made thet blood on your mouth?"

"Riggs hit me!" she whispered.  Then at something she feared
or saw or divined she shrank back, dropped on her knees, and
crawled into the spruce shelter.

"Wal, Riggs, I'd invite you to draw if thet 'd be any use,"
said Wilson.  This speech was reflective, yet it hurried a
little.

Riggs could not draw nor move nor speak.  He seemed turned to
stone, except his jaw, which slowly fell.

"Harve Riggs, gunman from down Missouri way," continued the
voice of incalculable intent, "reckon you've looked into a
heap of gun-barrels in your day.  Shore!  Wal, look in this
heah one!"

Wilson deliberately leveled the gun on a line with Riggs's
starting eyes.

"Wasn't you heard to brag in Turner's saloon -- thet you
could see lead comin' -- an' dodge it?  Shore you must be
swift!  . . .  DODGE THIS HEAH BULLET!"

The gun spouted flame and boomed.  One of Riggs's starting,
popping eyes -- the right one -- went out, like a lamp.  The
other rolled horribly, then set in blank dead fixedness.
Riggs swayed in slow motion until a lost balance felled him
heavily, an inert mass.

Wilson bent over the prostrate form.  Strange, violent
contrast to the cool scorn of the preceding moment!  Hissing,
spitting, as if poisoned by passion, he burst with the hate
that his character had forbidden him to express on a living
counterfeit.  Wilson was shaken, as if by a palsy.  He choked
over passionate, incoherent invective.  It was class hate
first, then the hate of real manhood for a craven, then the
hate of disgrace for a murder.  No man so fair as a
gun-fighter in the Western creed of an "even break"!

Wilson's terrible cataclysm of passion passed.  Straightening
up, he sheathed his weapon and began a slow pace before the
fire.  Not many moments afterward he jerked his head high and
listened.  Horses were softly thudding through the forest.
Soon Anson rode into sight with his men and one of the
strayed horses.  It chanced, too, that young Burt appeared on
the other side of the glade.  He walked quickly, as one who
anticipated news.

Snake Anson as he dismounted espied the dead man.

"Jim -- I thought I heard a shot."

The others exclaimed and leaped off their horses to view the
prostrate form with that curiosity and strange fear common
to all men confronted by sight of sudden death.

That emotion was only momentary.

"Shot his lamp out!" ejaculated Moze.

"Wonder how Gunman Riggs liked thet plumb center peg!"
exclaimed Shady Jones, with a hard laugh.

"Back of his head all gone!" gasped young Burt.  Not
improbably he had not seen a great many bullet-marked men.

"Jim!  -- the long-haired fool didn't try to draw on you!"
exclaimed Snake Anson, astounded.

Wilson neither spoke nor ceased his pacing.

"What was it over?" added Anson, curiously.

"He hit the gurl," replied Wilson.

Then there were long-drawn exclamations all around, and
glance met glance.

"Jim, you saved me the job," continued the outlaw leader.
"An' I'm much obliged. . . .  Fellars, search Riggs an' we'll
divvy. . . .  Thet all right, Jim?"

"Shore, an' you can have my share."

They found bank-notes in the man's pocket and considerable
gold worn in a money-belt around his waist.  Shady Jones
appropriated his boots, and Moze his gun.  Then they left him
as he had fallen.

"Jim, you'll have to track them lost hosses.  Two still
missin' an' one of them's mine," called Anson as Wilson
paced to the end of his beat.

The girl heard Anson, for she put her head out of the spruce
shelter and called: "Riggs said he'd hid two of the horses.
They must be close.  He came that way."

"Howdy, kid!  Thet's good news," replied Anson.  His spirits
were rising.  "He must hev wanted you to slope with him?"

"Yes.  I wouldn't go."

"An' then he hit you?"

"Yes."

"Wal, recallin' your talk of yestiddy, I can't see as Mister
Riggs lasted much longer hyar than he'd hev lasted in Texas.
We've some of thet great country right in our outfit."

The girl withdrew her white face.

"It's break camp, boys," was the leader's order.  "A couple
of you look up them hosses.  They'll be hid in some thick
spruces.  The rest of us 'll pack."


Soon the gang was on the move, heading toward the height of
land, and swerving from it only to find soft and grassy
ground that would not leave any tracks.

They did not travel more than a dozen miles during the
afternoon, but they climbed bench after bench until they
reached the timbered plateau that stretched in sheer black
slope up to the peaks.  Here rose the great and gloomy forest
of firs and pines, with the spruce overshadowed and thinned
out.  The last hour of travel was tedious and toilsome, a
zigzag, winding, breaking, climbing hunt for the kind of
camp-site suited to Anson's fancy.  He seemed to be growing
strangely irrational about selecting places to camp.  At
last, for no reason that could have been manifest to a good
woodsman, he chose a gloomy bowl in the center of the
densest forest that had been traversed.  The opening, if such
it could have been called, was not a park or even a glade.  A
dark cliff, with strange holes, rose to one side, but not so
high as the lofty pines that brushed it.  Along its base
babbled a brook, running over such formation of rock that
from different points near at hand it gave forth different
sounds, some singing, others melodious, and one at least of
a hollow, weird, deep sound, not loud, but strangely
penetrating.

"Sure spooky I say," observed Shady, sentiently.

The little uplift of mood, coincident with the rifling of
Riggs's person, had not worn over to this evening camp.  What
talk the outlaws indulged in was necessary and conducted in
low tones.  The place enjoined silence.

Wilson performed for the girl very much the same service as
he had the night before.  Only he advised her not to starve
herself; she must eat to keep up her strength.  She complied
at the expense of considerable effort.

As it had been a back-breaking day, in which all of them,
except the girl, had climbed miles on foot, they did not
linger awake long enough after supper to learn what a wild,
weird, and pitch-black spot the outlaw leader had chosen.
The little spaces of open ground between the huge-trunked
pine-trees had no counterpart up in the lofty spreading
foliage.  Not a star could blink a wan ray of light into that
Stygian pit.  The wind, cutting down over abrupt heights
farther up, sang in the pine-needles as if they were strings
vibrant with chords.  Dismal creaks were audible.  They were
the forest sounds of branch or tree rubbing one another, but
which needed the corrective medium of daylight to convince
any human that they were other than ghostly.  Then, despite
the wind and despite the changing murmur of the brook, there
seemed to be a silence insulating them, as deep and
impenetrable as the darkness.

But the outlaws, who were fugitives now, slept the sleep of
the weary, and heard nothing.  They awoke with the sun, when
the forest seemed smoky in a golden gloom, when light and
bird and squirrel proclaimed the day.

The horses had not strayed out of this basin during the
night, a circumstance that Anson was not slow to appreciate.

"It ain't no cheerful camp, but I never seen a safer place
to hole up in," he remarked to Wilson.

"Wal, yes -- if any place is safe," replied that ally,
dubiously.

"We can watch our back tracks.  There ain't any other way to
git in hyar thet I see."

"Snake, we was tolerable fair sheep-rustlers, but we're no
good woodsmen."

Anson grumbled his disdain of this comrade who had once been
his mainstay.  Then he sent Burt out to hunt fresh meat and
engaged his other men at cards.  As they now had the means to
gamble, they at once became absorbed.  Wilson smoked and
divided his thoughtful gaze between the gamblers and the
drooping figure of the girl.  The morning air was keen, and
she, evidently not caring to be near her captors beside the
camp-fire, had sought the only sunny spot in this gloomy
dell.  A couple of hours passed; the sun climbed high; the
air grew warmer.  Once the outlaw leader raised his head to
scan the heavy-timbered slopes that inclosed the camp.

"Jim, them hosses are strayin' off," he observed.

Wilson leisurely rose and stalked off across the small, open
patches, in the direction of the horses.  They had grazed
around from the right toward the outlet of the brook.  Here
headed a ravine, dense and green.  Two of the horses had gone
down.  Wilson evidently heard them, though they were not in
sight, and he circled somewhat so as to get ahead of them
and drive them back.  The invisible brook ran down over the
rocks with murmur and babble.  He halted with instinctive
action.  He listened.  Forest sounds, soft, lulling, came on
the warm, pine-scented breeze.  It would have taken no keen
ear to hear soft and rapid padded footfalls.  He moved on
cautiously and turned into a little open, mossy spot,
brown-matted and odorous, full of ferns and bluebells.  In
the middle of this, deep in the moss, he espied a huge round
track of a cougar.  He bent over it.  Suddenly he stiffened,
then straightened guardedly.  At that instant he received a
hard prod in the back.  Throwing up his hands, he stood
still, then slowly turned.  A tall hunter in gray buckskin,
gray-eyed and square-jawed, had him covered with a cocked
rifle.  And beside this hunter stood a monster cougar,
snarling and blinking.



CHAPTER XXII

"Howdy, Dale," drawled Wilson.  "Reckon you're a little
previous on me."

"Sssssh!  Not so loud," said the hunter, in low voice.
"You're Jim Wilson?"

"Shore am.  Say, Dale, you showed up soon.  Or did you jest
happen to run acrost us?"

"I've trailed you.  Wilson, I'm after the girl."

"I knowed thet when I seen you!"

The cougar seemed actuated by the threatening position of
his master, and he opened his mouth, showing great yellow
fangs, and spat at Wilson.  The outlaw apparently had no fear
of Dale or the cocked rifle, but that huge, snarling cat
occasioned him uneasiness.

"Wilson, I've heard you spoken of as a white outlaw," said
Dale.

"Mebbe I am.  But shore I'll be a scared one in a minit.
Dale, he's goin' to jump me!"

"The cougar won't jump you unless I make him.  Wilson, if I
let you go will you get the girl for me?"

"Wal, lemme see.  Supposin' I refuse?" queried Wilson,
shrewdly.

"Then, one way or another, it's all up with you."

"Reckon I 'ain't got much choice.  Yes, I'll do it.  But,
Dale, are you goin' to take my word for thet an' let me go
back to Anson?"

"Yes, I am.  You're no fool.  An' I believe you're square.
I've got Anson and his gang corralled.  You can't slip me --
not in these woods.  I could run off your horses -- pick you
off one by one -- or turn the cougar loose on you at night."

"Shore.  It's your game.  Anson dealt himself this hand. . . .
Between you an' me, Dale, I never liked the deal."

"Who shot Riggs?  . . .  I found his body."

"Wal, yours truly was around when thet come off," replied
Wilson, with an involuntary little shudder.  Some thought
made him sick.

"The girl?  Is she safe -- unharmed?" queried Dale,
hurriedly.

"She's shore jest as safe an' sound as when she was home.
Dale, she's the gamest kid thet ever breathed!  Why, no one
could hev ever made me believe a girl, a kid like her, could
hev the nerve she's got.  Nothin's happened to her 'cept
Riggs hit her in the mouth. . . .  I killed him for thet. . . .
An', so help me, God, I believe it's been workin' in me to
save her somehow!  Now it'll not be so hard."

"But how?" demanded Dale.

"Lemme see. . . .  Wal, I've got to sneak her out of camp an'
meet you.  Thet's all."

"It must be done quick."

"But, Dale, listen," remonstrated Wilson, earnestly.  "Too
quick 'll be as bad as too slow.  Snake is sore these days,
gittin' sorer all the time.  He might savvy somethin', if I
ain't careful, an' kill the girl or do her harm.  I know
these fellars.  They're all ready to go to pieces.  An' shore
I must play safe.  Shore it'd be safer to have a plan."

Wilson's shrewd, light eyes gleamed with an idea.  He was
about to lower one of his upraised hands, evidently to point
to the cougar, when he thought better of that.

"Anson's scared of cougars.  Mebbe we can scare him an' the
gang so it 'd be easy to sneak the girl off.  Can you make
thet big brute do tricks?  Rush the camp at night an' squall
an' chase off the horses?"

"I'll guarantee to scare Anson out of ten years' growth,"
replied Dale.

"Shore it's a go, then," resumed Wilson, as if glad.  "I'll
post the girl -- give her a hunch to do her part.  You sneak
up to-night jest before dark.  I'll hev the gang worked up.
An' then you put the cougar to his tricks, whatever you
want.  When the gang gits wild I'll grab the girl an' pack
her off down heah or somewheres aboot an' whistle fer you. . . .
But mebbe thet ain't so good.  If thet cougar comes
pilin' into camp he might jump me instead of one of the
gang.  An' another hunch.  He might slope up on me in the
dark when I was tryin' to find you.  Shore thet ain't
appealin' to me."

"Wilson, this cougar is a pet," replied Dale.  "You think
he's dangerous, but he's not.  No more than a kitten.  He only
looks fierce.  He has never been hurt by a person an' he's
never fought anythin' himself but deer an' bear.  I can make
him trail any scent.  But the truth is I couldn't make him
hurt you or anybody.  All the same, he can be made to scare
the hair off any one who doesn't know him."

"Shore thet settles me.  I'll be havin' a grand joke while
them fellars is scared to death. . . .  Dale, you can depend
on me.  An' I'm beholdin' to you fer what 'll square me some
with myself. . . .  To-night, an' if it won't work then,
to-morrer night shore!"

Dale lowered the rifle.  The big cougar spat again.  Wilson
dropped his hands and, stepping forward, split the green
wall of intersecting spruce branches.  Then he turned up the
ravine toward the glen.  Once there, in sight of his
comrades, his action and expression changed.

"Hosses all thar, Jim?" asked Anson, as he picked up, his
cards.

"Shore.  They act awful queer, them hosses," replied.  Wilson.
"They're afraid of somethin'."

"A-huh!  Silvertip mebbe," muttered Anson.  "Jim, You jest
keep watch of them hosses.  We'd be done if some tarnal
varmint stampeded them."

"Reckon I'm elected to do all the work now," complained
Wilson, "while you card-sharps cheat each other.  Rustle the
hosses -- an' water an' fire-wood.  Cook an' wash.  Hey?"

"No one I ever seen can do them camp tricks any better 'n
Jim Wilson," replied Anson.

"Jim, you're a lady's man an' thar's our pretty hoodoo over
thar to feed an' amoose," remarked Shady Jones, with a smile
that disarmed his speech.

The outlaws guffawed.

"Git out, Jim, you're breakin' up the game," said Moze, who
appeared loser.

"Wal, thet gurl would starve if it wasn't fer me," replied
Wilson, genially, and he walked over toward her, beginning
to address her, quite loudly, as he approached.  "Wal, miss,
I'm elected cook an' I'd shore like to heah what you fancy
fer dinner."

The outlaws heard, for they guffawed again.  "Haw!  Haw!  if
Jim ain't funny!" exclaimed Anson.

The girl looked up amazed.  Wilson was winking at her, and
when he got near he began to speak rapidly and low.

"I jest met Dale down in the woods with his pet cougar.  He's
after you.  I'm goin' to help him git you safe away.  Now you
do your part.  I want you to pretend you've gone crazy.
Savvy?  Act out of your head!  Shore I don't care what you do
or say, only act crazy.  An' don't be scared.  We're goin' to
scare the gang so I'll hev a chance to sneak you away.
To-night or to-morrow -- shore."

Before he began to speak she was pale, sad, dull of eye.
Swiftly, with his words, she was transformed, and when he
had ended she did not appear the same girl.  She gave him one
blazing flash of comprehension and nodded her head rapidly.

"Yes, I understand.  I'll do it!" she whispered.

The outlaw turned slowly away with the most abstract air,
confounded amid his shrewd acting, and he did not collect
himself until half-way back to his comrades.  Then, beginning
to hum an old darky tune, he stirred up and replenished the
fire, and set about preparation for the midday meal.  But he
did not miss anything going on around him.  He saw the girl
go into her shelter and come out with her hair all down over
her face.  Wilson, back to his comrades, grinned his glee,
and he wagged his head as if he thought the situation was
developing.

The gambling outlaws, however, did not at once see the girl
preening herself and smoothing her long hair in a way
calculated to startle.

"Busted!" ejaculated Anson, with a curse, as he slammed down
his cards.  "If I ain't hoodooed I'm a two-bit of a gambler!"

"Sartin you're hoodooed," said Shady Jones, in scorn.  "Is
thet jest dawnin' on you?"

"Boss, you play like a cow stuck in the mud," remarked Moze,
laconically.

"Fellars, it ain't funny," declared Anson, with pathetic
gravity.  "I'm jest gittin' on to myself.  Somethin's wrong.
Since 'way last fall no luck -- nothin' but the wust end of
everythin'.  I ain't blamin' anybody.  I'm the boss.  It's me
thet's off."

"Snake, shore it was the gurl deal you made," rejoined
Wilson, who had listened.  "I told you.  Our troubles hev only
begun.  An' I can see the wind-up.  Look!"

Wilson pointed to where the girl stood, her hair flying
wildly all over her face and shoulders.  She was making most
elaborate bows to an old stump, sweeping the ground with her
tresses in her obeisance.

Anson started.  He grew utterly astounded.  His amaze was
ludicrous.  And the other two men looked to stare, to equal
their leader's bewilderment.

"What 'n hell's come over her?" asked Anson, dubiously.
"Must hev perked up. . . .  But she ain't feelin' thet gay!"

Wilson tapped his forehead with a significant finger.

"Shore I was scared of her this mawnin'," he whispered.

"Naw!" exclaimed Anson, incredulously.

"If she hain't queer I never seen no queer wimmin,"
vouchsafed Shady Jones, and it would have been judged, by
the way he wagged his head, that he had been all his days
familiar with women.

Moze looked beyond words, and quite alarmed.

"I seen it comin'," declared Wilson, very much excited.  "But
I was scared to say so.  You-all made fun of me aboot her.
Now I shore wish I had spoken up."

Anson nodded solemnly.  He did not believe the evidence of
his sight, but the facts seemed stunning.  As if the girl
were a dangerous and incomprehensible thing, he approached
her step by step.  Wilson followed, and the others appeared
drawn irresistibly.

"Hey thar -- kid!" called Anson, hoarsely.

The girl drew her slight form up haughtily.  Through her
spreading tresses her eyes gleamed unnaturally upon the
outlaw leader.  But she deigned not to reply.

"Hey thar -- you Rayner girl!" added Anson, lamely.  "What's
ailin' you?"

"My lord!  did you address me?" she asked, loftily.

Shady Jones got over his consternation and evidently
extracted some humor from the situation, as his dark face
began to break its strain.

"Aww!" breathed Anson, heavily.

"Ophelia awaits your command, my lord.  I've been gathering
flowers," she said, sweetly, holding up her empty hands as
if they contained a bouquet.

Shady Jones exploded in convulsed laughter.  But his
merriment was not shared.  And suddenly it brought disaster
upon him.  The girl flew at him.

"Why do you croak, you toad?  I will have you whipped and put
in irons, you scullion!" she cried, passionately.

Shady underwent a remarkable change, and stumbled in his
backward retreat.  Then she snapped her fingers in Moze's
face.

"You black devil!  Get hence!  Avaunt!"

Anson plucked up courage enough to touch her.

"Aww!  Now, Ophelyar --"

Probably he meant to try to humor her, but she screamed, and
he jumped back as if she might burn him.  She screamed
shrilly, in wild, staccato notes.

"You!  You!" she pointed her finger at the outlaw leader.
"You brute to women!  You ran off from your wife!"

Anson turned plum-color and then slowly white.  The girl must
have sent a random shot home.

"And now the devil's turned you into a snake.  A long, scaly
snake with green eyes!  Uugh!  You'll crawl on your belly soon
-- when my cowboy finds you.  And he'll tramp you in the
dust."

She floated away from them and began to whirl gracefully,
arms spread and hair flying; and then, apparently oblivious
of the staring men, she broke into a low, sweet song.  Next
she danced around a pine, then danced into her little green
inclosure.  From which presently she sent out the most
doleful moans.

"Aww!  What a shame!" burst out Anson.  "Thet fine, healthy,
nervy kid!  Clean gone!  Daffy!  Crazy 'n a bedbug!"

"Shore it's a shame," protested Wilson. "But it's wuss for
us.  Lord!  if we was hoodooed before, what will we be now?
Didn't I tell you, Snake Anson?  You was warned.  Ask Shady
an' Moze -- they see what's up."

"No luck 'll ever come our way ag'in," predicted Shady,
mournfully.

"It beats me, boss, it beats me," muttered Moze.

"A crazy woman on my hands!  If thet ain't the last straw!"
broke out Anson, tragically, as he turned away.  Ignorant,
superstitious, worked upon by things as they seemed, the
outlaw imagined himself at last beset by malign forces.  When
he flung himself down upon one of the packs his big
red-haired hands shook.  Shady and Moze resembled two other
men at the end of their ropes.

Wilson's tense face twitched, and he averted it, as
apparently he fought off a paroxysm of some nature.  Just
then Anson swore a thundering oath.

"Crazy or not, I'll git gold out of thet kid!" he roared.

"But, man, talk sense.  Are you gittin' daffy, too?  I declare
this outfit's been eatin' loco.  You can't git gold fer her!"
said Wilson, deliberately.

"Why can't I?"

"'Cause we're tracked.  We can't make no dickers.  Why, in
another day or so we'll be dodgin' lead."

"Tracked!  Whar 'd you git thet idee?  As soon as this?"
queried Anson, lifting his head like a striking snake.  His
men, likewise, betrayed sudden interest.

"Shore it's no idee.  I 'ain't seen any one.  But I feel it in
my senses.  I hear somebody comin' -- a step on our trail --
all the time -- night in particular.  Reckon there's a big
posse after us."

"Wal, if I see or hear anythin' I'll knock the girl on the
head an' we'll dig out of hyar," replied Anson, sullenly.

Wilson executed a swift forward motion, violent and
passionate, so utterly unlike what might have been looked
for from him, that the three outlaws gaped.

"Then you'll shore hev to knock Jim Wilson on the haid
first," he said, in voice as strange as his action.

"Jim!  You wouldn't go back on me!" implored Anson, with
uplifted hands, in a dignity of pathos.

"I'm losin' my haid, too, an' you shore might as well knock
it in, an' you'll hev to before I'll stand you murderin'
thet pore little gurl you've drove crazy."

"Jim, I was only mad," replied Anson.  "Fer thet matter, I'm
growin' daffy myself.  Aw!  we all need a good stiff drink of
whisky."

So he tried to throw off gloom and apprehension, but he
failed.  His comrades did not rally to his help.  Wilson
walked away, nodding his head.

"Boss, let Jim alone," whispered Shady.  "It's orful the way
you buck ag'in' him -- when you seen he's stirred up.  Jim's
true blue.  But you gotta be careful."

Moze corroborated this statement by gloomy nods.

When the card-playing was resumed, Anson did not join the
game, and both Moze and Shady evinced little of that
whole-hearted obsession which usually attended their
gambling.  Anson lay at length, his head in a saddle,
scowling at the little shelter where the captive girl kept
herself out of sight.  At times a faint song or laugh, very
unnatural, was wafted across the space.  Wilson plodded at
the cooking and apparently heard no sounds.  Presently he
called the men to eat, which office they surlily and
silently performed, as if it was a favor bestowed upon the
cook.

"Snake, hadn't I ought to take a bite of grub over to the
gurl?" asked Wilson.

"Do you hev to ask me thet?" snapped Anson.  "She's gotta be
fed, if we hev to stuff it down her throat."

"Wal, I ain't stuck on the job," replied Wilson.  "But I'll
tackle it, seein' you-all got cold feet."

With plate and cup be reluctantly approached the little
lean-to, and, kneeling, he put his head inside.  The girl,
quick-eyed and alert, had evidently seen him coming.  At any
rate, she greeted him with a cautious smile.

"Jim, was I pretty good?" she whispered.

"Miss, you was shore the finest aktress I ever seen," he
responded, in a low voice.  "But you dam near overdid it.  I'm
goin' to tell Anson you're sick now -- poisoned or somethin'
awful.  Then we'll wait till night.  Dale shore will help us
out."

"Oh, I'm on fire to get away," she exclaimed.  "Jim Wilson,
I'll never forget you as long as I live!"

He seemed greatly embarrassed.

"Wal -- miss -- I -- I'll do my best licks.  But I ain't
gamblin' none on results.  Be patient.  Keep your nerve.  Don't
get scared.  I reckon between me an' Dale you'll git away
from heah."

Withdrawing his head, he got up and returned to the
camp-fire, where Anson was waiting curiously.

"I left the grub.  But she didn't touch it.  Seems sort of
sick to me, like she was poisoned."

"Jim, didn't I hear you talkin'?" asked Anson.

"Shore.  I was coaxin' her.  Reckon she ain't so ranty as she
was.  But she shore is doubled-up, an' sickish."

"Wuss an' wuss all the time," said Anson, between his teeth.
"An' where's Burt?  Hyar it's noon an' he left early.  He
never was no woodsman.  He's got lost."

"Either thet or he's run into somethin'," replied Wilson,
thoughtfully.

Anson doubled a huge fist and cursed deep under his breath
-- the reaction of a man whose accomplices and partners and
tools, whose luck, whose faith in himself had failed him.  He
flung himself down under a tree, and after a while, when his
rigidity relaxed, he probably fell asleep.  Moze and Shady
kept at their game.  Wilson paced to and fro, sat down, and
then got up to bunch the horses again, walked around the
dell and back to camp.  The afternoon hours were long.  And
they were waiting hours.  The act of waiting appeared on the
surface of all these outlaws did.

At sunset the golden gloom of the glen changed to a vague,
thick twilight.  Anson rolled over, yawned, and sat up.  As he
glanced around, evidently seeking Burt, his face clouded.

"No sign of Burt?" he asked.

Wilson expressed a mild surprise.  "Wal, Snake, you ain't
expectin' Burt now?"

"I am, course I am.  Why not?" demanded Anson.  "Any other
time we'd look fer him, wouldn't we?"

"Any other time ain't now. . . .  Burt won't ever come back!"
Wilson spoke it with a positive finality.

"A-huh!  Some more of them queer feelin's of yourn --
operatin' again, hey?  Them onnatural kind thet you can't
explain, hey?"

Anson's queries were bitter and rancorous.

"Yes.  An', Snake, I tax you with this heah.  Ain't any of
them queer feelin's operatin' in you?"

"No!" rolled out the leader, savagely.  But his passionate
denial was a proof that he lied.  From the moment of this
outburst, which was a fierce clinging to the old, brave
instincts of his character, unless a sudden change marked
the nature of his fortunes, he would rapidly deteriorate to
the breaking-point.  And in such brutal, unrestrained natures
as his this breaking-point meant a desperate stand, a
desperate forcing of events, a desperate accumulation of
passions that stalked out to deal and to meet disaster and
blood and death.

Wilson put a little wood on the fire and he munched a
biscuit.  No one asked him to cook.  No one made any effort to
do so.  One by one each man went to the pack to get some
bread and meat.

Then they waited as men who knew not what they waited for,
yet hated and dreaded it.

Twilight in that glen was naturally a strange, veiled
condition of the atmosphere.  It was a merging of shade and
light, which two seemed to make gray, creeping shadows.

Suddenly a snorting and stamping of the horses startled the
men.

"Somethin' scared the hosses," said Anson, rising.  "Come
on."

Moze accompanied him, and they disappeared in the gloom.
More trampling of hoofs was heard, then a cracking of brush,
and the deep voices of men.  At length the two outlaws
returned, leading three of the horses, which they haltered
in the open glen.

The camp-fire light showed Anson's face dark and serious.

"Jim, them hosses are wilder 'n deer," he said.  "I ketched
mine, an' Moze got two.  But the rest worked away whenever we
come close.  Some varmint has scared them bad.  We all gotta
rustle out thar quick."

Wilson rose, shaking his head doubtfully.  And at that moment
the quiet air split to a piercing, horrid neigh of a
terrified horse.  Prolonged to a screech, it broke and ended.
Then followed snorts of fright, pound and crack and thud of
hoofs, and crash of brush; then a gathering thumping,
crashing roar, split by piercing sounds.

"Stampede!" yelled Anson, and he ran to hold his own horse,
which he had haltered right in camp.  It was big and
wild-looking, and now reared and plunged to break away.
Anson just got there in time, and then it took all his
weight to pull the horse down.  Not until the crashing,
snorting, pounding melee had subsided and died away over the
rim of the glen did Anson dare leave his frightened
favorite.

"Gone!  Our horses are gone!  Did you hear 'em?" he exclaimed,
blankly.

"Shore.  They're a cut-up an' crippled bunch by now," replied
Wilson.

"Boss, we'll never git 'ern back, not 'n a hundred years,"
declared Moze.

"Thet settles us, Snake Anson," stridently added Shady
Jones.  "Them hosses are gone!  You can kiss your hand to
them. . . .  They wasn't hobbled.  They hed an orful scare.
They split on thet stampede an' they'll never git together.
. . .  See what you've fetched us to!"

Under the force of this triple arraignment the outlaw leader
dropped to his seat, staggered and silenced.  In fact,
silence fell upon all the men and likewise enfolded the
glen.

Night set in jet-black, dismal, lonely, without a star.
Faintly the wind moaned.  Weirdly the brook babbled through
its strange chords to end in the sound that was hollow.  It
was never the same -- a rumble, as if faint, distant thunder
-- a deep gurgle, as of water drawn into a vortex -- a
rolling, as of a stone in swift current.  The black cliff was
invisible, yet seemed to have many weird faces; the giant
pines loomed spectral; the shadows were thick, moving,
changing.  Flickering lights from the camp-fire circled the
huge trunks and played fantastically over the brooding men.
This camp-fire did not burn or blaze cheerily; it had no
glow, no sputter, no white heart, no red, living embers.  One
by one the outlaws, as if with common consent, tried their
hands at making the fire burn aright.  What little wood had
been collected was old; it would burn up with false flare,
only to die quickly.

After a while not one of the outlaws spoke or stirred.  Not
one smoked.  Their gloomy eyes were fixed on the fire.  Each
one was concerned with his own thoughts, his own lonely soul
unconsciously full of a doubt of the future.  That brooding
hour severed him from comrade.

At night nothing seemed the same as it was by day.  With
success and plenty, with full-blooded action past and more
in store, these outlaws were as different from their present
state as this black night was different from the bright day
they waited for.  Wilson, though he played a deep game of
deceit for the sake of the helpless girl -- and thus did not
have haunting and superstitious fears on her account -- was
probably more conscious of impending catastrophe than any of
them.

The evil they had done spoke in the voice of nature, out of
the darkness, and was interpreted by each according to his
hopes and fears.  Fear was their predominating sense.  For
years they had lived with some species of fear -- of honest
men or vengeance, of pursuit, of starvation, of lack of
drink or gold, of blood and death, of stronger men, of luck,
of chance, of fate, of mysterious nameless force.  Wilson was
the type of fearless spirit, but he endured the most gnawing
and implacable fear of all -- that of himself -- that he
must inevitably fall to deeds beneath his manhood.

So they hunched around the camp-fire, brooding because hope
was at lowest ebb; listening because the weird, black
silence, with its moan of wind and hollow laugh of brook,
compelled them to hear; waiting for sleep, for the hours to
pass, for whatever was to come.

And it was Anson who caught the first intimation of an
impending doom.



CHAPTER XXIII

"Listen!"

Anson whispered tensely.  His poise was motionless, his eyes
roved everywhere.  He held up a shaking, bludgy finger, to
command silence.

A third and stranger sound accompanied the low, weird moan
of the wind, and the hollow mockery of the brook -- and it
seemed a barely perceptible, exquisitely delicate wail or
whine.  It filled in the lulls between the other sounds.

"If thet's some varmint he's close," whispered Anson.

"But shore, it's far off," said Wilson.

Shady Jones and Moze divided their opinions in the same way.

All breathed freer when the wail ceased, relaxing to their
former lounging positions around the fire.  An impenetrable
wall of blackness circled the pale space lighted by the
camp-fire; and this circle contained the dark, somber group
of men in the center, the dying camp-fire, and a few
spectral trunks of pines and the tethered horses on the
outer edge.  The horses scarcely moved from their tracks, and
their erect, alert heads attested to their sensitiveness to
the peculiarities of the night.

Then, at an unusually quiet lull the strange sound gradually
arose to a wailing whine.

"It's thet crazy wench cryin'," declared the outlaw leader.

Apparently his allies accepted that statement with as much
relief as they had expressed for the termination of the
sound.

"Shore, thet must be it," agreed Jim Wilson, gravely.

"We'll git a lot of sleep with thet gurl whinin' all night,"
growled Shady Jones.

"She gives me the creeps," said Moze.

Wilson got up to resume his pondering walk, head bent, hands
behind his back, a grim, realistic figure of perturbation.

"Jim -- set down.  You make me nervous," said Anson,
irritably.

Wilson actually laughed, but low, as if to keep his strange
mirth well confined.

"Snake, I'll bet you my hoss an' my gun ag'in' a biscuit
thet in aboot six seconds more or less I'll be stampedin
like them hosses."

Anson's lean jaw dropped.  The other two outlaws stared with
round eyes.  Wilson was not drunk, they evidently knew; but
what he really was appeared a mystery.

"Jim Wilson, are you showin' yellow?" queried Anson,
hoarsely.

"Mebbe.  The Lord only knows.  But listen heah. . . .  Snake,
you've seen an' heard people croak?"

"You mean cash in -- die?"

"Shore."

"Wal, yes -- a couple or so," replied Anson, grimly.

"But you never seen no one die of shock -- of an orful
scare?"

"No, I reckon I never did."

"I have.  An' thet's what's ailin' Jim Wilson," and he
resumed his dogged steps.

Anson and his two comrades exchanged bewildered glances with
one another.

"A-huh!  Say, what's thet got to do with us hyar?  asked
Anson, presently.

"Thet gurl is dyin'!" retorted Wilson, in a voice cracking
like a whip.

The three outlaws stiffened in their seats, incredulous, yet
irresistibly swayed by emotions that stirred to this dark,
lonely, ill-omened hour.

Wilson trudged to the edge of the lighted circle, muttering
to himself, and came back again; then he trudged farther,
this time almost out of sight, but only to return; the third
time he vanished in the impenetrable wall of light.  The
three men scarcely moved a muscle as they watched the place
where he had disappeared.  In a few moments he came stumbling
back.

"Shore she's almost gone," he said, dismally.  "It took my
nerve, but I felt of her face. . . .  Thet orful wail is her
breath chokin' in her throat. . . .  Like a death-rattle,
only long instead of short."

"Wal, if she's gotta croak it's good she gits it over
quick," replied Anson.  "I 'ain't hed sleep fer three nights.
. . .  An' what I need is whisky."

"Snake, thet's gospel you're spoutin'," remarked Shady
Jones, morosely.

The direction of sound in the glen was difficult to be
assured of, but any man not stirred to a high pitch of
excitement could have told that the difference in volume of
this strange wail must have been caused by different
distances and positions.  Also, when it was loudest, it was
most like a whine.  But these outlaws heard with their
consciences.

At last it ceased abruptly.

Wilson again left the group to be swallowed up by the night.
His absence was longer than usual, but he returned
hurriedly.

"She's daid!" he exclaimed, solemnly.  "Thet innocent kid --
who never harmed no one -- an' who'd make any man better fer
seein' her -- she's daid!  . . .  Anson, you've shore a heap
to answer fer when your time comes."

"What's eatin' you?" demanded the leader, angrily.  "Her
blood ain't on my hands."

"It shore is," shouted Wilson, shaking his hand at Anson.
"An' you'll hev to take your medicine.  I felt thet comin'
all along.  An' I feel some more."

"Aw!  She's jest gone to sleep," declared Anson, shaking his
long frame as he rose.  "Gimme a light."

"Boss, you're plumb off to go near a dead gurl thet's jest
died crazy," protested Shady Jones.

"Off!  Haw!  Haw!  Who ain't off in this outfit, I'd like to
know?" Anson possessed himself of a stick blazing at one
and, and with this he stalked off toward the lean-to where
the girl was supposed to be dead.  His gaunt figure, lighted
by the torch, certainly fitted the weird, black
surroundings.  And it was seen that once near the girl's
shelter he proceeded more slowly, until he halted.  He bent
to peer inside.

"SHE'S GONE!" he yelled, in harsh, shaken accents.

Than the torch burned out, leaving only a red glow.  He
whirled it about, but the blaze did not rekindle.  His
comrades, peering intently, lost sight of his tall form and
the end of the red-ended stick.  Darkness like pitch
swallowed him.  For a moment no sound intervened.  Again the
moan of wind, the strange little mocking hollow roar,
dominated the place.  Then there came a rush of something,
perhaps of air, like the soft swishing of spruce branches
swinging aside.  Dull, thudding footsteps followed it.  Anson
came running back to the fire.  His aspect was wild, his face
pale, his eyes were fierce and starting from their sockets.
He had drawn his gun.

"Did -- ye -- see er hear -- anythin'?" he panted, peering
back, then all around, and at last at his man.

"No.  An' I shore was lookin' an' listenin'," replied Wilson.

"Boss, there wasn't nothin'," declared Moze.

"I ain't so sartin," said Shady Jones, with doubtful,
staring eyes.  "I believe I heerd a rustlin'."

"She wasn't there!" ejaculated Anson, in wondering awe.
"She's gone!  . . .  My torch went out.  I couldn't see.  An'
jest then I felt somethin' was passin'.  Fast!  I jerked
'round.  All was black, an' yet if I didn't see a big gray
streak I'm crazier 'n thet gurl.  But I couldn't swear to
anythin' but a rushin' of wind.  I felt thet."

"Gone!" exclaimed Wilson, in great alarm.  "Fellars, if
thet's so, then mebbe she wasn't daid an' she wandered off.
. . .  But she was daid!  Her heart hed quit beatin'.  I'll
swear to thet."

"I move to break camp," said Shady Jones, gruffly, and he
stood up.  Moze seconded that move by an expressive flash of
his black visage.

"Jim, if she's dead -- an' gone -- what 'n hell's come off?"
huskily asked Anson.  "It, only seems thet way.  We're all
worked up. . . .  Let's talk sense."

"Anson, shore there's a heap you an' me don't know," replied
Wilson.  "The world come to an end once.  Wal, it can come to
another end. . . .  I tell you I ain't surprised --"

"THAR!" cried Anson, whirling, with his gun leaping out.

Something huge, shadowy, gray against the black rushed
behind the men and trees; and following it came a
perceptible acceleration of the air.

"Shore, Snake, there wasn't nothin'," said Wilson,
"presently."

"I heerd," whispered Shady Jones.

"It was only a breeze blowin' thet smoke," rejoined Moze.

"I'd bet my soul somethin' went back of me," declared Anson,
glaring into the void.

"Listen an' let's make shore," suggested Wilson.

The guilty, agitated faces of the outlaws showed plain
enough in the flickering light for each to see a convicting
dread in his fellow.  Like statues they stood, watching and
listening.

Few sounds stirred in the strange silence.  Now and then the
horses heaved heavily, but stood still; a dismal, dreary
note of the wind in the pines vied with a hollow laugh of
the brook.  And these low sounds only fastened attention upon
the quality of the silence.  A breathing, lonely spirit of
solitude permeated the black dell.  Like a pit of unplumbed
depths the dark night yawned.  An evil conscience, listening
there, could have heard the most peaceful, beautiful, and
mournful sounds of nature only as strains of a calling hell.

Suddenly the silent, oppressive, surcharged air split to a
short, piercing scream.

Anson's big horse stood up straight, pawing the air, and
came down with a crash.  The other horses shook with terror.

"Wasn't -- thet -- a cougar?" whispered Anson, thickly.

"Thet was a woman's scream," replied Wilson, and he appeared
to be shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Then -- I figgered right -- the kid's alive -- wonderin'
around -- an' she let out thet orful scream," said Anson.

"Wonderin' 'round, yes -- but she's daid!"

"My Gawd!  it ain't possible!"

"Wal, if she ain't wonderin' round daid she's almost daid,"
replied Wilson.  And he began to whisper to himself.

"If I'd only knowed what thet deal meant I'd hev plugged
Beasley instead of listenin'. . . .  An' I ought to hev
knocked thet kid on the head an' made sartin she'd croaked.
If she goes screamin' 'round thet way --"

His voice failed as there rose a thin, splitting,
high-pointed shriek, somewhat resembling the first scream,
only less wild.  It came apparently from the cliff.

From another point in the pitch-black glen rose the wailing,
terrible cry of a woman in agony.  Wild, haunting, mournful
wail!

Anson's horse, loosing the halter, plunged back, almost
falling over a slight depression in the rocky ground.  The
outlaw caught him and dragged him nearer the fire.  The other
horses stood shaking and straining.  Moze ran between them
and held them.  Shady Jones threw green brush on the fire.
With sputter and crackle a blaze started, showing Wilson
standing tragically, his arms out, facing the black shadows.

The strange, live shriek was not repeated.  But the cry, like
that of a woman in her death-throes, pierced the silence
again.  It left a quivering ring that softly died away.  Then
the stillness clamped down once more and the darkness seemed
to thicken.  The men waited, and when they had begun to relax
the cry burst out appallingly close, right behind the trees.
It was human -- the personification of pain and terror --
the tremendous struggle of precious life against horrible
death.  So pure, so exquisite, so wonderful was the cry that
the listeners writhed as if they saw an innocent, tender,
beautiful girl torn frightfully before their eyes.  It was
full of suspense; it thrilled for death; its marvelous
potency was the wild note -- that beautiful and ghastly note
of self-preservation.

In sheer desperation the outlaw leader fired his gun at the
black wall whence the cry came.  Then he had to fight his
horse to keep him from plunging away.  Following the shot was
an interval of silence; the horses became tractable; the men
gathered closer to the fire, with the halters still held
firmly.

"If it was a cougar -- thet 'd scare him off," said Anson.

"Shore, but it ain't a cougar," replied Wilson.  "Wait an'
see!"

They all waited, listening with ears turned to different
points, eyes roving everywhere, afraid of their very
shadows.  Once more the moan of wind, the mockery of brook,
deep gurgle, laugh and babble, dominated the silence of the
glen.

"Boss, let's shake this spooky hole," whispered Moze.

The suggestion attracted Anson, and he pondered it while
slowly shaking his head.

"We've only three hosses.  An' mine 'll take ridin' -- after
them squalls," replied the leader.  "We've got packs, too.
An' hell 'ain't nothin' on this place fer bein' dark."

"No matter.  Let's go.  I'll walk an' lead the way," said
Moze, eagerly.  "I got sharp eyes.  You fellars can ride an'
carry a pack.  We'll git out of here an' come back in
daylight fer the rest of the outfit."

"Anson, I'm keen fer thet myself," declared Shady Jones.

"Jim, what d'ye say to thet?" queried Anson.  "Rustlin' out
of this black hole?"

"Shore it's a grand idee," agreed Wilson.

"Thet was a cougar," avowed Anson, gathering courage as the
silence remained unbroken.  "But jest the same it was as
tough on me as if it hed been a woman screamin' over a blade
twistin' in her gizzards."

"Snake, shore you seen a woman heah lately?" deliberately
asked Wilson.

"Reckon I did.  Thet kid," replied Anson, dubiously.

"Wal, you seen her go crazy, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"'An' she wasn't heah when you went huntin' fer her?"

"Correct."

"Wal, if thet's so, what do you want to blab about cougars
for?"

Wilson's argument seemed incontestable.  Shady and Moze
nodded gloomily and shifted restlessly from foot to foot.
Anson dropped his head.

"No matter -- if we only don't hear --" he began, suddenly
to grow mute.

Right upon them, from some place, just out the circle of
light, rose a scream, by reason of its proximity the most
piercing and agonizing yet heard, simply petrifying the
group until the peal passed.  Anson's huge horse reared, and
with a snort of terror lunged in tremendous leap, straight
out.  He struck Anson with thudding impact, knocking him over
the rocks into the depression back of the camp-fire, and
plunging after him.  Wilson had made a flying leap just in
time to avoid being struck, and he turned to see Anson go
down.  There came a crash, a groan, and then the strike and
pound of hoofs as the horse struggled up.  Apparently he had
rolled over his master.

"Help, fellars!" yelled Wilson, quick to leap down over the
little bank, and in the dim light to grasp the halter.  The
three men dragged the horse out and securely tied him close
to a tree.  That done, they peered down into the depression.
Anson's form could just barely be distinguished in the
gloom.  He lay stretched out.  Another groan escaped him.

"Shore I'm scared he's hurt," said Wilson.

"Hoss rolled right on top of him.  An' thet hoss's heavy,"
declared Moze.

They got down and knelt beside their leader.  In the darkness
his face looked dull gray.  His breathing was not right.

"Snake, old man, you ain't -- hurt?" asked Wilson, with a
tremor in his voice.  Receiving no reply, he said to his
comrades, "Lay hold an' we'll heft him up where we can see."

The three men carefully lifted Anson up on the bank and laid
him near the fire in the light.  Anson was conscious.  His
face was ghastly.  Blood showed on his lips.

Wilson knelt beside him.  The other outlaws stood up, and
with one dark gaze at one another damned Anson's chance of
life.  And on the instant rose that terrible distressing
scream of acute agony -- like that of a woman being
dismembered.  Shady Jones whispered something to Moze.  Then
they stood up, gazing down at their fallen leader.

"Tell me where you're hurt?" asked Wilson.

"He -- smashed -- my chest," said Anson, in a broken,
strangled whisper.

Wilson's deft hands opened the outlaw's shirt and felt of
his chest.

<TT>-335-</TT>


"No.  Shore your breast-bone ain't smashed," replied Wilson,
hopefully.  And he began to run his hand around one side of
Anson's body and then the other.  Abruptly he stopped,
averted his gaze, then slowly ran the hand all along that
side.  Anson's ribs had been broken and crushed in by the
weight of the horse.  He was bleeding at the mouth, and his
slow, painful expulsions of breath brought a bloody froth,
which showed that the broken bones had penetrated the lungs.
An injury sooner or later fatal!

"Pard, you busted a rib or two," said Wilson.

"Aw, Jim -- it must be -- wuss 'n thet!" he whispered.  "I'm
-- in orful -- pain.  An' I can't -- git any -- breath."

"Mebbe you'll be better," said Wilson, with a cheerfulness
his face belied.

Moze bent close over Anson, took a short scrutiny of that
ghastly face, at the blood-stained lips, and the lean hands
plucking at nothing.  Then he jerked erect.

"Shady, he's goin' to cash.  Let's clear out of this."

"I'm yours pertickler previous," replied Jones.

Both turned away.  They untied the two horses and led them up
to where the saddles lay.  Swiftly the blankets went on,
swiftly the saddles swung up, swiftly the cinches snapped.
Anson lay gazing up at Wilson, comprehending this move.  And
Wilson stood strangely grim and silent, somehow detached
coldly from that self of the past few hours.

"Shady, you grab some bread an' I'll pack a bunk of meat,"
said Moze.  Both men came near the fire, into the light,
within ten feet of where the leader lay.

"Fellars -- you ain't -- slopin'?" he whispered, in husky
amaze.

"Boss, we air thet same.  We can't do you no good an' this
hole ain't healthy," replied Moze.

Shady Jones swung himself astride his horse, all about him
sharp, eager, strung.

"Moze, I'll tote the grub an' you lead out of hyar, till we
git past the wust timber," he said.

"Aw, Moze --you wouldn't leave -- Jim hyar -- alone,"
implored Anson.

"Jim can stay till he rots," retorted Moze.  "I've hed enough
of this hole."

"But, Moze -- it ain't square --" panted Anson.  "Jim
wouldn't -- leave me.  I'd stick -- by you. . . .  I'll make
it -- all up to you."

"Snake, you're goin' to cash," sardonically returned Moze.

A current leaped all through Anson's stretched frame.  His
ghastly face blazed.  That was the great and the terrible
moment which for long had been in abeyance.  Wilson had known
grimly that it would come, by one means or another.  Anson
had doggedly and faithfully struggled against the tide of
fatal issues.  Moze and Shady Jones, deep locked in their
self-centered motives, had not realized the inevitable trend
of their dark lives.

Anson, prostrate as he was, swiftly drew his gun and shot
Moze.  Without sound or movement of hand Moze fell.  Then the
plunge of Shady's horse caused Anson's second shot to miss.
A quick third shot brought no apparent result but Shady's
cursing resort to his own weapon.  He tried to aim from his
plunging horse.  His bullets spattered dust and gravel over
Anson.  Then Wilson's long arm stretched and his heavy gun
banged.  Shady collapsed in the saddle, and the frightened
horse, throwing him, plunged out of the circle of light.
Thudding hoofs, crashings of brush, quickly ceased.

"Jim -- did you -- git him?" whispered Anson.

"Shore did, Snake," was the slow, halting response.  Jim
Wilson must have sustained a sick shudder as he replied.
Sheathing his gun, he folded a blanket and put it under
Anson's head.

"Jim -- my feet -- air orful cold," whispered Anson.

"Wal, it's gittin' chilly," replied Wilson, and, taking a
second blanket, he laid that over Anson's limbs.  "Snake, I'm
feared Shady hit you once."

"A-huh!  But not so I'd care -- much -- if I hed -- no wuss
hurt."

"You lay still now.  Reckon Shady's hoss stopped out heah a
ways.  An' I'll see."

"Jim -- I 'ain't heerd -- thet scream fer -- a little."

"Shore it's gone. . . .  Reckon now thet was a cougar."

"I knowed it!"

Wilson stalked away into the darkness.  That inky wall did
not seem so impenetrable and black after he had gotten out
of the circle of light.  He proceeded carefully and did not
make any missteps.  He groped from tree to tree toward the
cliff and presently brought up against a huge flat rock as
high as his head.  Here the darkness was blackest, yet he was
able to see a light form on the rock.

"Miss, are you there -- all right?" he called, softly.

"Yes, but I'm scared to death," she whispered in reply.

"Shore it wound up sudden.  Come now.  I reckon your trouble's
over."

He helped her off the rock, and, finding her unsteady on her
feet, he supported her with one arm and held the other out
in front of him to feel for objects.  Foot by foot they
worked out from under the dense shadow of the cliff,
following the course of the little brook.  It babbled and
gurgled, and almost drowned the low whistle Wilson sent out.
The girl dragged heavily upon him now, evidently weakening.
At length he reached the little open patch at the head of
the ravine.  Halting here, he whistled.  An answer came from
somewhere behind him and to the right.  Wilson waited, with
the girl hanging on his arm.

"Dale's heah," he said.  "An' don't you keel over now --
after all the nerve you hed."

A swishing of brush, a step, a soft, padded footfall; a
looming, dark figure, and a long, low gray shape, stealthily
moving -- it was the last of these that made Wilson jump.

"Wilson!" came Dale's subdued voice.

"Heah.  I've got her, Dale.  Safe an sound," replied Wilson,
stepping toward the tall form.  And he put the drooping girl
into Dale's arms.

"Bo!  Bo!  You're all right?" Dale's deep voice was tremulous.

She roused up to seize him and to utter little cries of joy

"Oh, Dale!  . . .  Oh, thank Heaven!  I'm ready to drop now. . . .
Hasn't it been a night -- an adventure?  . . .  I'm well
-- safe -- sound. . . .  Dale, we owe it to this Jim Wilson."

"Bo, I -- we'll all thank him -- all our lives," replied
Dale.  "Wilson, you're a man!  . . .  If you'll shake that gang
--"

"Dale, shore there ain't much of a gang left, onless you let
Burt git away," replied Wilson.

"I didn't kill him -- or hurt him.  But I scared him so I'll
bet he's runnin' yet. . . .  Wilson, did all the shootin'
mean a fight?"

"Tolerable."

"Oh, Dale, it was terrible!  I saw it all.  I --"

"Wal, Miss, you can tell him after I go. . . .  I'm wishin'
you good luck."

His voice was a cool, easy drawl, slightly tremulous.

The girl's face flashed white in the gloom.  She pressed
against the outlaw -- wrung his hands.

"Heaven help you, Jim Wilson!  You ARE from Texas!  . . .  I'll
remember you -- pray for you all my life!"

Wilson moved away, out toward the pale glow of light under
the black pines.



CHAPTER XXIV

As Helen Rayner watched Dale ride away on a quest perilous
to him, and which meant almost life or death for her, it was
surpassing strange that she could think of nothing except
the thrilling, tumultuous moment when she had put her arms
round his neck.

It did not matter that Dale -- splendid fellow that he was
-- had made the ensuing moment free of shame by taking her
action as he had taken it -- the fact that she had actually
done it was enough.  How utterly impossible for her to
anticipate her impulses or to understand them, once they
were acted upon!  Confounding realization then was that when
Dale returned with her sister, Helen knew she would do the
same thing over again!

"If I do -- I won't be two-faced about it," she
soliloquized, and a hot blush flamed her cheeks.

She watched Dale until he rode out of sight.

When he had gone, worry and dread replaced this other
confusing emotion.  She turned to the business of meeting
events.  Before supper she packed her valuables and books,
papers, and clothes, together with Bo's, and had them in
readiness so if she was forced to vacate the premises she
would have her personal possessions.

The Mormon boys and several other of her trusted men slept
in their tarpaulin beds on the porch of the ranch-house that
night, so that Helen at least would not be surprised.  But
the day came, with its manifold duties undisturbed by any
event.  And it passed slowly with the leaden feet of
listening, watching vigilance.

Carmichael did not come back, nor was there news of him to
be had.  The last known of him had been late the afternoon of
the preceding day, when a sheep-herder had seen him far out
on the north range, headed for the hills.  The Beemans
reported that Roy's condition had improved, and also that
there was a subdued excitement of suspense down in the
village.

This second lonely night was almost unendurable for Helen.
When she slept it was to dream horrible dreams; when she lay
awake it was to have her heart leap to her throat at a
rustle of leaves near the window, and to be in torture of
imagination as to poor Bo's plight.  A thousand times Helen
said to herself that Beasley could have had the ranch and
welcome, if only Bo had been spared.  Helen absolutely
connected her enemy with her sister's disappearance.  Riggs
might have been a means to it.

Daylight was not attended by so many fears; there were
things to do that demanded attention.  And thus it was that
the next morning, shortly before noon, she was recalled to
her perplexities by a shouting out at the corrals and a
galloping of horses somewhere near.  From the window she saw
a big smoke.

"Fire!  That must be one of the barns -- the old one,
farthest out," she said, gazing out of the window.  "Some
careless Mexican with his everlasting cigarette!"

Helen resisted an impulse to go out and see what had
happened.  She had decided to stay in the house.  But when
footsteps sounded on the porch and a rap on the door, she
unhesitatingly opened it.  Four Mexicans stood close.  One of
them, quick as thought, flashed a hand in to grasp her, and
in a single motion pulled her across the threshold.

"No hurt, Senora," he said, and pointed -- making motions
she must go.

Helen did not need to be told what this visit meant.  Many as
her conjectures had been, however, she had not thought of
Beasley subjecting her to this outrage.  And her blood
boiled.

"How dare you!" she said, trembling in her effort to control
her temper.  But class, authority, voice availed nothing with
these swarthy Mexicans.  They grinned.  Another laid hold of
Helen with dirty, brown hand.  She shrank from the contact.

"Let go!" she burst out, furiously.  And instinctively she
began to struggle to free herself.  Then they all took hold
of her.  Helen's dignity might never have been!  A burning,
choking rush of blood was her first acquaintance with the
terrible passion of anger that was her inheritance from the
Auchinclosses.  She who had resolved never to lay herself
open to indignity now fought like a tigress.  The Mexicans,
jabbering in their excitement, had all they could do, until
they lifted her bodily from the porch.  They handled her as
if she had been a half-empty sack of corn.  One holding each
hand and foot they packed her, with dress disarranged and
half torn off, down the path to the lane and down the lane
to the road.  There they stood upright and pushed her off her
property.

Through half-blind eyes Helen saw them guarding the gateway,
ready to prevent her entrance.  She staggered down the road
to the village.  It seemed she made her way through a red
dimness -- that there was a congestion in her brain -- that
the distance to Mrs.  Cass's cottage was insurmountable.  But
she got there, to stagger up the path, to hear the old
woman's cry.  Dizzy, faint, sick, with a blackness enveloping
all she looked at, Helen felt herself led into the
sitting-room and placed in the big chair.

Presently sight and clearness of mind returned to her.  She
saw Roy, white as a sheet, questioning her with terrible
eyes.  The old woman hung murmuring over her, trying to
comfort her as well as fasten the disordered dress.

"Four greasers -- packed me down -- the hill -- threw me off
my ranch -- into the road!" panted Helen.

She seemed to tell this also to her own consciousness and to
realize the mighty wave of danger that shook her whole body.

"If I'd known -- I would have killed them!"

She exclaimed that, full-voiced and hard, with dry, hot eyes
on her friends.  Roy reached out to take her hand, speaking
huskily.  Helen did not distinguish what he said.  The
frightened old woman knelt, with unsteady fingers fumbling
over the rents in Helen's dress.  The moment came when
Helen's quivering began to subside, when her blood quieted
to let her reason sway, when she began to do battle with her
rage, and slowly to take fearful stock of this consuming
peril that had been a sleeping tigress in her veins.

"Oh, Miss Helen, you looked so turrible, I made sure you was
hurted," the old woman was saying.

Helen gazed strangely at her bruised wrists, at the one
stocking that hung down over her shoe-top, at the rent
which had bared her shoulder to the profane gaze of those
grinning, beady-eyed Mexicans.

"My body's -- not hurt," she whispered.

Roy had lost some of his whiteness, and where his eyes had
been fierce they were now kind.

"Wal, Miss Nell, it's lucky no harm's done. . . .  Now if
you'll only see this whole deal clear!  . . .  Not let it
spoil your sweet way of lookin' an' hopin'!  If you can only
see what's raw in this West -- an' love it jest the same!"

Helen only half divined his meaning, but that was enough for
a future reflection.  The West was beautiful, but hard.  In
the faces of these friends she began to see the meaning of
the keen, sloping lines, and shadows of pain, of a lean,
naked truth, cut as from marble.

"For the land's sakes, tell us all about it," importuned
Mrs.  Cass.

Whereupon Helen shut her eyes and told the brief narrative
of her expulsion from her home.

"Shore we-all expected thet," said Roy.  "An' it's jest as
well you're here with a whole skin.  Beasley's in possession
now an' I reckon we'd all sooner hev you away from thet
ranch."

"But, Roy, I won't let Beasley stay there," cried Helen.

"Miss Nell, shore by the time this here Pine has growed big
enough fer law you'll hev gray in thet pretty hair.  You
can't put Beasley off with your honest an' rightful claim.
Al Auchincloss was a hard driver.  He made enemies an' he
made some he didn't kill.  The evil men do lives after them.
An' you've got to suffer fer Al's sins, though Al was as
good as any man who ever prospered in these parts."

"Oh, what can I do?  I won't give up.  I've been robbed.  Can't
the people help me?  Must I meekly sit with my hands crossed
while that half-breed thief -- Oh, it's unbelievable!"

"I reckon you'll jest hev to be patient fer a few days,"
said Roy, calmly.  "It'll all come right in the end."

"Roy!  You've had this deal, as you call it, all worked out
in mind for a long time!" exclaimed Helen.

"Shore, an' I 'ain't missed a reckonin' yet."

"Then what will happen -- in a few days?"

"Nell Rayner, are you goin' to hev some spunk an' not lose
your nerve again or go wild out of your head?"

"I'll try to be brave, but -- but I must be prepared," she
replied, tremulously.

"Wal, there's Dale an' Las Vegas an' me fer Beasley to
reckon with.  An', Miss Nell, his chances fer long life are
as pore as his chances fer heaven!"

"But, Roy, I don't believe in deliberate taking of life,"
replied Helen, shuddering.  "That's against my religion.  I
won't allow it. . . .  And -- then -- think, Dale, all of you
-- in danger!"

"Girl, how 're you ever goin' to help yourself?  Shore you
might hold Dale back, if you love him, an' swear you won't
give yourself to him. . . .  An' I reckon I'd respect your
religion, if you was goin' to suffer through me. . . .  But
not Dale nor you -- nor Bo -- nor love or heaven or hell can
ever stop thet cowboy Las Vegas!"

"Oh, if Dale brings Bo back to me -- what will I care for my
ranch?" murmured Helen.

"Reckon you'll only begin to care when thet happens.  Your
big hunter has got to be put to work," replied Roy, with his
keen smile.


Before noon that day the baggage Helen had packed at home
was left on the porch of Widow Cass's cottage, and Helen's
anxious need of the hour was satisfied.  She was made
comfortable in the old woman's one spare room, and she set
herself the task of fortitude and endurance.

To her surprise, many of Mrs.  Cass's neighbors came
unobtrusively to the back door of the little cottage and
made sympathetic inquiries.  They appeared a subdued and
apprehensive group, and whispered to one another as they
left.  Helen gathered from their visits a conviction that the
wives of the men dominated by Beasley believed no good could
come of this high-handed taking over of the ranch.  Indeed,
Helen found at the end of the day that a strength had been
borne of her misfortune.

The next day Roy informed her that his brother John had come
down the preceding night with the news of Beasley's descent
upon the ranch.  Not a shot had been fired, and the only
damage done was that of the burning of a hay-filled barn.
This had been set on fire to attract Helen's men to one
spot, where Beasley had ridden down upon them with three
times their number.  He had boldly ordered them off the land,
unless they wanted to acknowledge him boss and remain there
in his service.  The three Beemans had stayed, having planned
that just in this event they might be valuable to Helen's
interests.  Beasley had ridden down into Pine the same as
upon any other day.  Roy reported also news which had come in
that morning, how Beasley's crowd had celebrated late the
night before.

The second and third and fourth days endlessly wore away,
and Helen believed they had made her old.  At night she lay
awake most of the time, thinking and praying, but during the
afternoon she got some sleep.  She could think of nothing and
talk of nothing except her sister, and Dale's chances of
saving her.

"Well, shore you pay Dale a pore compliment," finally
protested the patient Roy.  "I tell you -- Milt Dale can do
anythin' he wants to do in the woods.  You can believe thet.
. . .  But I reckon he'll run chances after he comes back."

This significant speech thrilled Helen with its assurance of
hope, and made her blood curdle at the implied peril
awaiting the hunter.

On the afternoon of the fifth day Helen was abruptly
awakened from her nap.  The sun had almost set.  She heard
voices -- the shrill, cackling notes of old Mrs.  Cass, high
in excitement, a deep voice that made Helen tingle all over,
a girl's laugh, broken but happy.  There were footsteps and
stamping of hoofs.  Dale had brought Bo back!  Helen knew it.
She grew very weak, and had to force herself to stand erect.
Her heart began to pound in her very ears.  A sweet and
perfect joy suddenly flooded her soul.  She thanked God her
prayers had been answered.  Then suddenly alive with sheer
mad physical gladness, she rushed out.

She was just in time to see Roy Beeman stalk out as if he
had never been shot, and with a yell greet a big, gray-clad,
gray-faced man -- Dale.

"Howdy, Roy!  Glad to see you up," said Dale.  How the quiet
voice steadied Helen!  She beheld Bo.  Bo, looking the same,
except a little pale and disheveled!  Then Bo saw her and
leaped at her, into her arms.

"Nell!  I'm here!  Safe -- all right!  Never was so happy in my
life. . . .  Oh-h!  talk about your adventures!  Nell, you dear
old mother to me -- I've had e-enough forever!"

Bo was wild with joy, and by turns she laughed and cried.
But Helen could not voice her feelings.  Her eyes were so dim
that she could scarcely see Dale when he loomed over her as
she held Bo.  But he found the hand she put shakily out.

"Nell!  . . .  Reckon it's been harder -- on you." His voice
was earnest and halting.  She felt his searching gaze upon
her face.  "Mrs.  Cass said you were here.  An' I know why."

Roy led them all indoors.

"Milt, one of the neighbor boys will take care of thet
hoss," he said, as Dale turned toward the dusty and weary
Ranger.  "Where'd you leave the cougar?"

"I sent him home," replied Date.

"Laws now, Milt, if this ain't grand!" cackled Mrs.  Cass.
"We've worried some here.  An' Miss Helen near starved
a-hopin' fer you."

"Mother, I reckon the girl an' I are nearer starved than
anybody you know," replied Dale, with a grim laugh.

"Fer the land's sake!  I'll be fixin' supper this minit."

"Nell, why are you here?" asked Bo, suspiciously.

For answer Helen led her sister into the spare room and
closed the door.  Bo saw the baggage.  Her expression changed.
The old blaze leaped to the telltale eyes.

"He's done it!" she cried, hotly.

"Dearest -- thank God.  I've got you -- back again!" murmured
Helen, finding her voice.  "Nothing else matters!  . . .  I've
prayed only for that!"

"Good old Nell!" whispered Bo, and she kissed and embraced
Helen.  "You really mean that, I know.  But nix for yours
truly!  I'm back alive and kicking, you bet. . . .  Where's my
-- where's Tom?"

"Bo, not a word has been heard of him for five days.  He's
searching for you, of course."

"And you've been -- been put off the ranch?"

"Well, rather," replied Helen, and in a few trembling words
she told the story of her eviction.

Bo uttered a wild word that had more force than elegance,
but it became her passionate resentment of this outrage done
her sister.

"Oh!  . . .  Does Tom Carmichael know this?" she added,
breathlessly.

"How could he?"

"When he finds out, then -- Oh, won't there be hell?  I'm
glad I got here first. . . .  Nell, my boots haven't been off
the whole blessed time.  Help me.  And oh, for some soap and
hot water and some clean clothes!  Nell, old girl, I wasn't
raised right for these Western deals.  Too luxurious!"

And then Helen had her ears filled with a rapid-fire account
of running horses and Riggs and outlaws and Beasley called
boldly to his teeth, and a long ride and an outlaw who was a
hero -- a fight with Riggs -- blood and death -- another
long ride -- a wild camp in black woods -- night -- lonely,
ghostly sounds -- and day again -- plot -- a great actress
lost to the world -- Ophelia -- Snakes and Ansons --
hoodooed outlaws -- mournful moans and terrible cries --
cougar -- stampede -- fight and shots, more blood and death
-- Wilson hero -- another Tom Carmichael -- fallen in love
with outlaw gun-fighter if -- black night and Dale and horse
and rides and starved and, "Oh, Nell, he WAS from Texas!"

Helen gathered that wonderful and dreadful events had hung
over the bright head of this beloved little sister, but the
bewilderment occasioned by Bo's fluent and remarkable
utterance left only that last sentence clear.

Presently Helen got a word in to inform Bo that Mrs.  Cass
had knocked twice for supper, and that welcome news checked
Bo's flow of speech when nothing else seemed adequate.

It was obvious to Helen that Roy and Dale had exchanged
stories.  Roy celebrated this reunion by sitting at table the
first time since he had been shot; and despite Helen's
misfortune and the suspended waiting balance in the air the
occasion was joyous.  Old Mrs.  Cass was in the height of her
glory.  She sensed a romance here, and, true to her sex, she
radiated to it.

Daylight was still lingering when Roy got up and went out on
the porch.  His keen ears had heard something.  Helen fancied
she herself had heard rapid hoof-beats.

"Dale, come out!" called Roy, sharply.

The hunter moved with his swift, noiseless agility.  Helen
and Bo followed, halting in the door.

"Thet's Las Vegas," whispered Dale.

To Helen it seemed that the cowboy's name changed the very
atmosphere.

Voices were heard at the gate; one that, harsh and quick,
sounded like Carmichael's.  And a spirited horse was pounding
and scattering gravel.  Then a lithe figure appeared,
striding up the path.  It was Carmichael -- yet not the
Carmichael Helen knew.  She heard Bo's strange little cry, a
corroboration of her own impression.

Roy might never have been shot, judging from the way he
stepped out, and Dale was almost as quick.  Carmichael
reached them -- grasped them with swift, hard hands.

"Boys -- I jest rode in.  An' they said you'd found her!"

"Shore, Las Vegas.  Dale fetched her home safe an' sound. . . .
There she is."

The cowboy thrust aside the two men, and with a long stride
he faced the porch, his piercing eyes on the door.  All that
Helen could think of his look was that it seemed terrible.
Bo stepped outside in front of Helen.  Probably she would
have run straight into Carmichael's arms if some strange
instinct had not withheld her.  Helen judged it to be fear;
she found her heart lifting painfully.

"Bo!" he yelled, like a savage, yet he did not in the least
resemble one.

"Oh -- Tom!" cried Bo, falteringly.  She half held out her
arms.

"You, girl?" That seemed to be his piercing query, like the
quivering blade in his eyes.  Two more long strides carried
him close up to her, and his look chased the red out of Bo's
cheek.  Then it was beautiful to see his face marvelously
change until it was that of the well remembered Las Vegas
magnified in all his old spirit.

"Aw!" The exclamation was a tremendous sigh.  "I shore am
glad!"

That beautiful flash left his face as he wheeled to the men.
He wrung Dale's hand long and hard, and his gaze confused
the older man.

"RIGGS!" he said, and in the jerk of his frame as he whipped
out the word disappeared the strange, fleeting signs of his
kindlier emotion.

"Wilson killed him," replied Dale.

"Jim Wilson -- that old Texas Ranger!  . . .  Reckon he lent
you a hand?"

"My friend, he saved Bo," replied Dale, with emotion.  "My
old cougar an' me -- we just hung 'round."

"You made Wilson help you?" cut in the hard voice.

"Yes.  But he killed Riggs before I come up an' I reckon he'd
done well by Bo if I'd never got there."

"How about the gang?"

"All snuffed out, I reckon, except Wilson."

"Somebody told me Beasley hed ran Miss Helen off the ranch.
Thet so?"

"Yes.  Four of his greasers packed her down the hill -- most
tore her clothes off, so Roy tells me."

"Four greasers!  . . .  Shore it was Beasley's deal clean
through?"

"Yes.  Riggs was led.  He had an itch for a bad name, you
know.  But Beasley made the plan.  It was Nell they wanted
instead of Bo."

Abruptly Carmichael stalked off down the darkening path, his
silver heel-plates ringing, his spurs jingling.

"Hold on, Carmichael," called Dale, taking a step.

"Oh, Tom!" cried Bo.

"Shore folks callin' won't be no use, if anythin would be,"
said Roy.  "Las Vegas has hed a look at red liquor."

"He's been drinking!  Oh, that accounts!  . . .  he never --
never even touched me!"

For once Helen was not ready to comfort Bo.  A mighty tug at
her heart had sent her with flying, uneven steps toward
Dale.  He took another stride down the path, and another.

"Dale -- oh -- please stop!" she called, very low.

He halted as if he had run sharply into a bar across the
path.  When he turned Helen had come close.  Twilight was deep
there in the shade of the peach-trees, but she could see his
face, the hungry, flaring eyes.

"I -- I haven't thanked you -- yet -- for bringing Bo home,"
she whispered.

"Nell, never mind that," he said, in surprise.  "If you must
-- why, wait.  I've got to catch up with that cowboy."

"No.  Let me thank you now," she whispered, and, stepping
closer, she put her arms up, meaning to put them round his
neck.  That action must be her self-punishment for the other
time she had done it.  Yet it might also serve to thank him.
But, strangely, her hands got no farther than his breast,
and fluttered there to catch hold of the fringe of his
buckskin jacket.  She felt a heave of his deep chest.

"I -- I do thank you -- with all my heart," she said,
softly.  "I owe you now -- for myself and her -- more than I
can ever repay."

"Nell, I'm your friend," he replied, hurriedly.  "Don't talk
of repayin' me.  Let me go now -- after Las Vegas."

"What for?" she queried, suddenly.

"I mean to line up beside him -- at the bar -- or wherever
he goes," returned Dale.

"Don't tell me that.  _I_ know.  You're going straight to meet
Beasley."

"Nell, if you hold me up any longer I reckon I'll have to
run -- or never get to Beasley before that cowboy."

Helen locked her fingers in the fringe of his jacket --
leaned closer to him, all her being responsive to a bursting
gust of blood over her.

"I'll not let you go," she said.

He laughed, and put his great hands over hers.  "What 're you
sayin', girl?  You can't stop me."

"Yes, I can.  Dale, I don't want you to risk your life."

He stared at her, and made as if to tear her hands from
their hold.

"Listen -- please -- oh -- please!" she implored.  "If you go
deliberately to kill Beasley -- and do it -- that will be
murder. . . .  It's against my religion. . . .  I would be
unhappy all my life."

"But, child, you'll be ruined all your life if Beasley is
not dealt with -- as men of his breed are always dealt with
in the West," he remonstrated, and in one quick move he had
freed himself from her clutching fingers.

Helen, with a move as swift, put her arms round his neck and
clasped her hands tight.

"Milt, I'm finding myself," she said.  "The other day, when I
did -- this -- you made an excuse for me. . . .  I'm not
two-faced now."

She meant to keep him from killing Beasley if she sacrificed
every last shred of her pride.  And she stamped the look of
his face on her heart of hearts to treasure always.  The
thrill, the beat of her pulses, almost obstructed her
thought of purpose.

"Nell, just now -- when you're overcome -- rash with
feelin's -- don't say to me -- a word -- a --"

He broke down huskily.

"My first friend -- my -- Oh Dale, I KNOW you love me!  she
whispered.  And she hid her face on his breast, there to feel
a tremendous tumult.

"Oh, don't you?" she cried, in low, smothered voice, as his
silence drove her farther on this mad, yet glorious purpose.

"If you need to be told -- yes -- I reckon I do love you,
Nell Rayner," he replied.

It seemed to Helen that he spoke from far off.  She lifted
her face, her heart on her lips.

"If you kill Beasley I'll never marry you," she said.

"Who's expectin' you to?" he asked, with low, hoarse laugh.
"Do you think you have to marry me to square accounts?
This's the only time you ever hurt me, Nell Rayner. . . .
I'm 'shamed you could think I'd expect you -- out of
gratitude --"

"Oh -- you -- you are as dense as the forest where you
live," she cried.  And then she shut her eyes again, the
better to remember that transfiguration of his face, the
better to betray herself.

"Man -- I love you!" Full and deep, yet tremulous, the words
burst from her heart that had been burdened with them for
many a day.

Then it seemed, in the throbbing riot of her senses, that
she was lifted and swung into his arms, and handled with a
great and terrible tenderness, and hugged and kissed with
the hunger and awkwardness of a bear, and held with her feet
off the ground, and rendered blind, dizzy, rapturous, and
frightened, and utterly torn asunder from her old calm,
thinking self.

He put her down -- released her.

"Nothin' could have made me so happy as what you said." He
finished with a strong sigh of unutterable, wondering joy.

"Then you will not go to -- to meet --"

Helen's happy query froze on her lips.

"I've got to go!" he rejoined, with his old, quiet voice.
"Hurry in to Bo. . . .  An' don't worry.  Try to think of
things as I taught you up in the woods."

Helen heard his soft, padded footfalls swiftly pass away.
She was left there, alone in the darkening twilight,
suddenly cold and stricken, as if turned to stone.

Thus she stood an age-long moment until the upflashing truth
galvanized her into action.  Then she flew in pursuit of
Dale.  The truth was that, in spite of Dale's' early training
in the East and the long years of solitude which had made
him wonderful in thought and feeling, he had also become a
part of this raw, bold, and violent West.

It was quite dark now and she had run quite some distance
before she saw Dale's tall, dark form against the yellow
light of Turner's saloon.

Somehow, in that poignant moment, when her flying feet kept
pace with her heart, Helen felt in herself a force opposing
itself against this raw, primitive justice of the West.  She
was one of the first influences emanating from civilized
life, from law and order.  In that flash of truth she saw the
West as it would be some future time, when through women and
children these wild frontier days would be gone forever.
Also, just as clearly she saw the present need of men like
Roy Beeman and Dale and the fire-blooded Carmichael.  Beasley
and his kind must be killed.  But Helen did not want her
lover, her future husband, and the probable father of her
children to commit what she held to be murder.

At the door of the saloon she caught up with Dale.

"Milt -- oh -- wait!' -- wait!" she panted.

She heard him curse under his breath as he turned.  They were
alone in the yellow flare of light.  Horses were champing
bits and drooping before the rails.

"You go back!" ordered Dale, sternly.  His face was pale, his
eyes were gleaming.

"No!  Not till -- you take me -- or carry me!" she replied,
resolutely, with all a woman's positive and inevitable
assurance.

Then he laid hold of her with ungentle hands.  His violence,
especially the look on his face, terrified Helen, rendered
her weak.  But nothing could have shaken her resolve.  She
felt victory.  Her sex, her love, and her presence would be
too much for Dale.

As he swung Helen around, the low hum of voices inside the
saloon suddenly rose to sharp, hoarse roars, accompanied by
a scuffling of feet and crashing of violently sliding chairs
or tables.  Dale let go of Helen and leaped toward the door.
But a silence inside, quicker and stranger than the roar,
halted him.  Helen's heart contracted, then seemed to cease
beating.  There was absolutely not a perceptible sound.  Even
the horses appeared, like Dale, to have turned to statues.

Two thundering shots annihilated this silence.  Then quickly
came a lighter shot -- the smash of glass.  Dale ran into the
saloon.  The horses began to snort, to rear, to pound.  A low,
muffled murmur terrified Helen even as it drew her.  Dashing
at the door, she swung it in and entered.

The place was dim, blue-hazed, smelling of smoke.  Dale stood
just inside the door.  On the floor lay two men.  Chairs and
tables were overturned.  A motley, dark, shirt-sleeved,
booted, and belted crowd of men appeared hunched against the
opposite wall, with pale, set faces, turned to the bar.
Turner, the proprietor, stood at one end, his face livid,
his hands aloft and shaking.  Carmichael leaned against the
middle of the bar.  He held a gun low down.  It was smoking.

With a gasp Helen flashed her eyes back to Dale.  He had seen
her -- was reaching an arm toward her.  Then she saw the man
lying almost at her feet.  Jeff Mulvey -- her uncle's old
foreman!  His face was awful to behold.  A smoking gun lay
near his inert hand.  The other man had fallen on his face.
His garb proclaimed him a Mexican.  He was not yet dead.  Then
Helen, as she felt Dale's arm encircle her, looked farther,
because she could not prevent it -- looked on at that
strange figure against the bar -- this boy who had been such
a friend in her hour of need -- this naive and frank
sweetheart of her sister's.

She saw a man now -- wild, white, intense as fire, with some
terrible cool kind of deadliness in his mien.  His left elbow
rested upon the bar, and his hand held a glass of red
liquor.  The big gun, low down in his other hand, seemed as
steady as if it were a fixture.

"Heah's to thet -- half-breed Beasley an' his outfit!"

Carmichael drank, while his flaming eyes held the crowd;
then with savage action of terrible passion he flung the
glass at the quivering form of the still living Mexican on
the floor.

Helen felt herself slipping.  All seemed to darken around
her.  She could not see Dale, though she knew he held her.
Then she fainted.



CHAPTER XXV

Las Vegas Carmichael was a product of his day.

The Pan Handle of Texas, the old Chisholm Trail along which
were driven the great cattle herds northward, Fort Dodge,
where the cowboys conflicted with the card-sharps -- these
hard places had left their marks on Carmichael.  To come from
Texas was to come from fighting stock.  And a cowboy's life
was strenuous, wild, violent, and generally brief.  The
exceptions were the fortunate and the swiftest men with
guns; and they drifted from south to north and west, taking
with them the reckless, chivalrous, vitriolic spirit
peculiar to their breed.

The pioneers and ranchers of the frontier would never have
made the West habitable had it not been for these wild
cowboys, these hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-living
rangers of the barrens, these easy, cool, laconic, simple
young men whose blood was tinged with fire and who possessed
a magnificent and terrible effrontery toward danger and
death.

Las Vegas ran his horse from Widow Cass's cottage to
Turner's saloon, and the hoofs of the goaded steed crashed
in the door.  Las Vegas's entrance was a leap.  Then he stood
still with the door ajar and the horse pounding and snorting
back.  All the men in that saloon who saw the entrance of Las
Vegas knew what it portended.  No thunderbolt could have more
quickly checked the drinking, gambling, talking crowd.  They
recognized with kindred senses the nature of the man and his
arrival.  For a second the blue-hazed room was perfectly
quiet, then men breathed, moved, rose, and suddenly caused a
quick, sliding crash of chairs and tables.

The cowboy's glittering eyes flashed to and fro, and then
fixed on Mulvey and his Mexican companion.  That glance
singled out these two, and the sudden rush of nervous men
proved it.  Mulvey and the sheep-herder were left alone in
the center of the floor.

"Howdy, Jeff!  Where's your boss?" asked Las Vegas.  His
voice was cool, friendly; his manner was easy, natural; but
the look of him was what made Mulvey pale and the Mexican
livid.

"Reckon he's home," replied Mulvey.

"Home?  What's he call home now?"

"He's hangin' out hyar at Auchincloss's," replied Mulvey.
His voice was not strong, but his eyes were steady,
watchful.

Las Vegas quivered all over as if stung.  A flame that seemed
white and red gave his face a singular hue.

"Jeff, you worked for old Al a long time, an' I've heard of
your differences," said Las Vegas.  "Thet ain't no mix of
mine. . . .  But you double-crossed Miss Helen!"

Mulvey made no attempt to deny this.  He gulped slowly.  His
hands appeared less steady, and he grew paler.  Again Las
Vegas's words signified less than his look.  And that look
now included the Mexican.

"Pedro, you're one of Beasley's old hands," said Las Vegas,
accusingly.  "An' -- you was one of them four greasers thet
--"

Here the cowboy choked and bit over his words as if they
were a material poison.  The Mexican showed his guilt and
cowardice.  He began to jabber.

"Shet up!" hissed Las Vegas, with a savage and significant
jerk of his arm, as if about to strike.  But that action was
read for its true meaning.  Pell-mell the crowd split to rush
each way and leave an open space behind the three.

Las Vegas waited.  But Mulvey seemed obstructed.  The Mexican
looked dangerous through his fear.  His fingers twitched as
if the tendons running up into his arms were being pulled.

An instant of suspense -- more than long enough for Mulvey
to be tried and found wanting -- and Las Vegas, with laugh
and sneer, turned his back upon the pair and stepped to the
bar.  His call for a bottle made Turner jump and hold it out
with shaking hands.  Las Vegas poured out a drink, while his
gaze was intent on the scarred old mirror hanging behind the
bar.

This turning his back upon men he had just dared to draw
showed what kind of a school Las Vegas had been trained in.
If those men had been worthy antagonists of his class he
would never have scorned them.  As it was, when Mulvey and
the Mexican jerked at their guns, Las Vegas swiftly wheeled
and shot twice.  Mulvey's gun went off as he fell, and the
Mexican doubled up in a heap on the floor.  Then Las Vegas
reached around with his left hand for the drink he had
poured out.

At this juncture Dale burst into the saloon, suddenly to
check his impetus, to swerve aside toward the bar and halt.
The door had not ceased swinging when again it was propelled
inward, this time to admit Helen Rayner, white and
wide-eyed.

In another moment then Las Vegas had spoken his deadly toast
to Beasley's gang and had fiercely flung the glass at the
writhing Mexican on the floor.  Also Dale had gravitated
toward the reeling Helen to catch her when she fainted.

Las Vegas began to curse, and, striding to Dale, he pushed
him out of the saloon.

"--!  What 're you doin' heah?" he yelled, stridently.
"Hevn't you got thet girl to think of?  Then do it, you big
Indian!  Lettin' her run after you heah -- riskin' herself
thet way!  You take care of her an' Bo an' leave this deal to
me!"

The cowboy, furious as he was at Dale, yet had keen, swift
eyes for the horses near at hand, and the men out in the dim
light.  Dale lifted the girl into his arms, and, turning
without a word, stalked away to disappear in the darkness.
Las Vegas, holding his gun low, returned to the bar-room.  If
there had been any change in the crowd it was slight.  The
tension had relaxed.  Turner no longer stood with hands up.

"You-all go on with your fun," called the cowboy, with a
sweep of his gun.  "But it'd be risky fer any one to start
leavin'."

With that he backed against the bar, near where the black
bottle stood.  Turner walked out to begin righting tables and
chairs, and presently the crowd, with some caution and
suspense, resumed their games and drinking.  It was
significant that a wide berth lay between them and the door.
From time to time Turner served liquor to men who called for
it.

Las Vegas leaned with back against the bar.  After a while he
sheathed his gun and reached around for the bottle.  He drank
with his piercing eyes upon the door.  No one entered and no
one went out.  The games of chance there and the drinking
were not enjoyed.  It was a hard scene -- that smoky, long,
ill-smelling room, with its dim, yellow lights, and dark,
evil faces, with the stealthy-stepping Turner passing to and
fro, and the dead Mulvey staring in horrible fixidity at the
ceiling, and the Mexican quivering more and more until he
shook violently, then lay still, and with the drinking,
somber, waiting cowboy, more fiery and more flaming with
every drink, listening for a step that did not come.

Time passed, and what little change it wrought was in the
cowboy.  Drink affected him, but he did not become drunk.  It
seemed that the liquor he drank was consumed by a mounting
fire.  It was fuel to a driving passion.  He grew more sullen,
somber, brooding, redder of eye and face, more crouching and
restless.  At last, when the hour was so late that there was
no probability of Beasley appearing, Las Vegas flung himself
out of the saloon.

All lights of the village had now been extinguished.  The
tired horses drooped in the darkness.  Las Vegas found his
horse and led him away down the road and out a lane to a
field where a barn stood dim and dark in the starlight.
Morning was not far off.  He unsaddled the horse and, turning
him loose, went into the barn.  Here he seemed familiar with
his surroundings, for he found a ladder and climbed to a
loft, where he threw himself on the hay.

He rested, but did not sleep.  At daylight he went down and
brought his horse into the barn.  Sunrise found Las Vegas
pacing to and fro the short length of the interior, and
peering out through wide cracks between the boards.  Then
during the succeeding couple of hours he watched the
occasional horseman and wagon and herder that passed on into
the village.

About the breakfast hour Las Vegas saddled his horse and
rode back the way he had come the night before.  At Turner's
he called for something to eat as well as for whisky.  After
that he became a listening, watching machine.  He drank
freely for an hour; then he stopped.  He seemed to be drunk,
but with a different kind of drunkenness from that usual in
drinking men.  Savage, fierce, sullen, he was one to avoid.
Turner waited on him in evident fear.

At length Las Vegas's condition became such that action was
involuntary.  He could not stand still nor sit down.  Stalking
out, he passed the store, where men slouched back to avoid
him, and he went down the road, wary and alert, as if he
expected a rifle-shot from some hidden enemy.  Upon his
return down that main thoroughfare of the village not a
person was to be seen.  He went in to Turner's.  The
proprietor was there at his post, nervous and pale.  Las
Vegas did not order any more liquor.

"Turner, I reckon I'll bore you next time I run in heah," he
said, and stalked out.

He had the stores, the road, the village, to himself; and he
patrolled a beat like a sentry watching for an Indian
attack.

Toward noon a single man ventured out into the road to
accost the cowboy.

"Las Vegas, I'm tellin' you -- all the greasers air leavin'
the range," he said.

"Howdy, Abe!" replied Las Vegas.  "What 'n hell you talkin'
about?"

The man repeated his information.  And Las Vegas spat out
frightful curses.

"Abe -- you heah what Beasley's doin'?"

"Yes.  He's with his men -- up at the ranch.  Reckon he can't
put off ridin' down much longer."

That was where the West spoke.  Beasley would be forced to
meet the enemy who had come out single-handed against him.
Long before this hour a braver man would have come to face
Las Vegas.  Beasley could not hire any gang to bear the brunt
of this situation.  This was the test by which even his own
men must judge him.  All of which was to say that as the
wildness of the West had made possible his crimes, so it now
held him responsible for them.

"Abe, if thet -- greaser don't rustle down heah I'm goin'
after him."

"Sure.  But don't be in no hurry," replied Abe.

"I'm waltzin' to slow music. . . .  Gimme a smoke."

With fingers that slightly trembled Abe rolled a cigarette,
lit it from his own, and handed it to the cowboy.

"Las Vegas, I reckon I hear hosses," he said, suddenly.

"Me, too," replied Las Vegas, with his head high like that
of a listening deer.  Apparently he forgot the cigarette and
also his friend.  Abe hurried back to the store, where he
disappeared.

Las Vegas began his stalking up and down, and his action now
was an exaggeration of all his former movements.  A rational,
ordinary mortal from some Eastern community, happening to
meet this red-faced cowboy, would have considered him drunk
or crazy.  Probably Las Vegas looked both.  But all the same
he was a marvelously keen and strung and efficient
instrument to meet the portending issue.  How many thousands
of times, on the trails, and in the wide-streeted little
towns all over the West, had this stalk of the cowboy's been
perpetrated!  Violent, bloody, tragic as it was, it had an
importance in that pioneer day equal to the use of a horse
or the need of a plow.

At length Pine was apparently a deserted village, except for
Las Vegas, who patrolled his long beat in many ways -- he
lounged while he watched; he stalked like a mountaineer; he
stole along Indian fashion, stealthily, from tree to tree,
from corner to corner; he disappeared in the saloon to
reappear at the back; he slipped round behind the barns to
come out again in the main road; and time after time he
approached his horse as if deciding to mount.

The last visit he made into Turner's saloon he found no one
there.  Savagely he pounded on the bar with his gun.  He got
no response.  Then the long-pent-up rage burst.  With wild
whoops he pulled another gun and shot at the mirror, the
lamps.  He shot the neck off a bottle and drank till he
choked, his neck corded, bulging, and purple.  His only slow
and deliberate action was the reloading of his gun.  Then he
crashed through the doors, and with a wild yell leaped sheer
into the saddle, hauling his horse up high and goading him
to plunge away.

Men running to the door and windows of the store saw a
streak of dust flying down the road.  And then they trooped
out to see it disappear.  The hour of suspense ended for
them.  Las Vegas had lived up to the code of the West, had
dared his man out, had waited far longer than needful to
prove that man a coward.  Whatever the issue now, Beasley was
branded forever.  That moment saw the decline of whatever
power he had wielded.  He and his men might kill the cowboy
who had ridden out alone to face him, but that would not
change the brand.

The preceding night Beasley bad been finishing a late supper
at his newly acquired ranch, when Buck Weaver, one of his
men, burst in upon him with news of the death of Mulvey and
Pedro.

"Who's in the outfit?  How many?" he had questioned, quickly.

"It's a one-man outfit, boss," replied Weaver.

Beasley appeared astounded.  He and his men had prepared to
meet the friends of the girl whose property he had taken
over, and because of the superiority of his own force he had
anticipated no bloody or extended feud.  This amazing
circumstance put the case in very much more difficult form.

"One man!" he ejaculated.

"Yep.  Thet cowboy Las Vegas.  An', boss, he turns out to be a
gun-slinger from Texas.  I was in Turner's.  Hed jest happened
to step in the other room when Las Vegas come bustin' in on
his hoss an' jumped off. . . .  Fust thing he called Jeff an'
Pedro.  They both showed yaller.  An' then, damn if thet
cowboy didn't turn his back on them an' went to the bar fer
a drink.  But he was lookin' in the mirror an' when Jeff an'
Pedro went fer their guns why he whirled quick as lightnin'
an' bored them both. . . .  I sneaked out an --"

"Why didn't you bore him?" roared Beasley.

Buck Weaver steadily eyed his boss before he replied.  "I
ain't takin' shots at any fellar from behind doors.  An' as
fer meetin' Las Vegas -- excoose me, boss!  I've still a
hankerin' fer sunshine an' red liquor.  Besides, I 'ain't got
nothin' ag'in' Las Vegas.  If he's rustled over here at the
head of a crowd to put us off I'd fight, jest as we'd all
fight.  But you see we figgered wrong.  It's between you an'
Las Vegas!  . . .  You oughter seen him throw thet hunter Dale
out of Turner's."

"Dale!  Did he come?" queried Beasley.

"He got there just after the cowboy plugged Jeff.  An' thet
big-eyed girl, she came runnin' in, too.  An' she keeled over
in Dale's arms.  Las Vegas shoved him out -- cussed him so
hard we all heerd. . . .  So, Beasley, there ain't no fight
comin' off as we figgered on."

Beasley thus heard the West speak out of the mouth of his
own man.  And grim, sardonic, almost scornful, indeed, were
the words of Buck Weaver.  This rider had once worked for Al
Auchincloss and had deserted to Beasley under Mulvey's
leadership.  Mulvey was dead and the situation was vastly
changed.

Beasley gave Weaver a dark, lowering glance, and waved him
away.  From the door Weaver sent back a doubtful,
scrutinizing gaze, then slouched out.  That gaze Beasley had
not encountered before.

It meant, as Weaver's cronies meant, as Beasley's
long-faithful riders, and the people of the range, and as
the spirit of the West meant, that Beasley was expected to
march down into the village to face his single foe.

But Beasley did not go.  Instead he paced to and fro the
length of Helen Rayner's long sitting-room with the nervous
energy of a man who could not rest.  Many times he hesitated,
and at others he made sudden movements toward the door, only
to halt.  Long after midnight he went to bed, but not to
sleep.  He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn arose,
gloomy and irritable.

He cursed the Mexican serving-women who showed their
displeasure at his authority.  And to his amaze and rage not
one of his men came to the house.  He waited and waited.  Then
he stalked off to the corrals and stables carrying a rifle
with him.  The men were there, in a group that dispersed
somewhat at his advent.  Not a Mexican was in sight.

Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go
down into the village with him.  That order was disobeyed.
Beasley stormed and raged.  His riders sat or lounged, with
lowered faces.  An unspoken hostility seemed present.  Those
who had been longest with him were least distant and
strange, but still they did not obey.  At length Beasley
roared for his Mexicans.

"Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes
sloped -- gone these two hours -- on the way to Magdalena,"
said Buck Weaver.

Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was
the most astounding.  Beasley cursed with his questioning
wonder.

"Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin' cowboy from
Texas," replied Weaver, imperturbably.

Beasley's dark, swarthy face changed its hue.  What of the
subtle reflection in Weaver's slow speech!  One of the men
came out of a corral leading Beasley's saddled and bridled
horse.  This fellow dropped the bridle and sat down among his
comrades without a word.  No one spoke.  The presence of the
horse was significant.  With a snarling, muttered curse,
Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the
ranch-house.

In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had
known for hours -- that if he had stood any chance at all
for their respect as well as for his life the hour was long
past.

Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and when he got
there he nervously poured out a drink.  Evidently something
in the fiery liquor frightened him, for he threw the bottle
aside.  It was as if that bottle contained a courage which
was false.

Again he paced the long sitting-room, growing more and more
wrought-up as evidently he grew familiar with the singular
state of affairs.  Twice the pale serving-woman called him to
dinner.

The dining-room was light and pleasant, and the meal,
fragrant and steaming, was ready for him.  But the women had
disappeared.  Beasley seated himself -- spread out his big
hands on the table.

Then a slight rustle -- a clink of spur -- startled him.  He
twisted his head.

"Howdy, Beasley!" said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by
magic.

Beasley's frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been
loosed in his veins.  Sweat-drops stood out on his pallid
face.

"What -- you -- want?" he asked, huskily.

"Wal now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein' I am foreman
heah, thet it'd be nice an' proper fer me to drop in an' eat
with you -- THE LAST TIME!" replied the cowboy.  His drawl
was slow and cool, his tone was friendly and pleasant.  But
his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its beak.

Beasley's reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.

Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.

"Eat or not, it's shore all the same to me," said Las Vegas,
and he began to load his plate with his left hand.  His right
hand rested very lightly, with just the tips of his
vibrating fingers on the edge of the table; and he never for
the slightest fraction of a second took his piercing eyes
off Beasley.

"Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my
blood to see you sittin' there -- thinkin' you've put my
boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch," began Las Vegas, softly.
And then he helped himself leisurely to food and drink.  "In
my day I've shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws,
thieves, rustlers, an' sich like, but fer an out an' out
dirty low-down skunk, you shore take the dough!  . . .  I'm
goin, to kill you in a minit or so, jest as soon as you move
one of them dirty paws of yourn.  But I hope you'll be polite
an' let me say a few words.  I'll never be happy again if you
don't. . . .  Of all the -- yaller greaser dogs I ever seen,
you're the worst!  . . .  I was thinkin' last night mebbe
you'd come down an' meet me like a man, so 's I could wash
my hands ever afterward without gettin' sick to my stummick.
But you didn't come. . . .  Beasley, I'm so ashamed of myself
thet I gotta call you -- when I ought to bore you, thet -- I
ain't even second cousin to my old self when I rode fer
Chisholm.  It don't mean nuthin' to you to call you liar!
robber!  blackleg!  a sneakin' coyote!  an' a cheat thet hires
others to do his dirty work!  . . .  By Gawd!  --"

"Carmichael, gimme a word in," hoarsely broke out Beasley.
"You're right, it won't do no good to call me. . . .  But
let's talk. . . .  I'll buy you off.  Ten thousand dollars --"

"Haw!  Haw!  Haw!" roared Las Vegas.  He was as tense as a
strung cord and his face possessed a singular pale radiance.
His right hand began to quiver more and more.

"I'll -- double -- it!" panted Beasley.  "I'll -- make over
-- half the ranch -- all the stock --"

"Swaller thet!" yelled Las Vegas, with terrible strident
ferocity.

"Listen -- man!  . . .  I take -- it back!  . . .  I'll give up
-- Auchincloss's ranch!" Beasley was now a shaking,
whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with rolling eyes.

Las Vegas's left fist pounded hard on the table.

"GREASER, COME ON!" he thundered.

Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his
gun.



CHAPTER XXVI

For Helen Rayner that brief, dark period of expulsion from
her home had become a thing of the past, almost forgotten.

Two months had flown by on the wings of love and work and
the joy of finding her place there in the West.  All her old
men had been only too glad of the opportunity to come back
to her, and under Dale and Roy Beeman a different and
prosperous order marked the life of the ranch.

Helen had made changes in the house by altering the
arrangement of rooms and adding a new section.  Only once had
she ventured into the old dining-room where Las Vegas
Carmichael had sat down to that fatal dinner for Beasley.
She made a store-room of it, and a place she would never
again enter.

Helen was happy, almost too happy, she thought, and
therefore made more than needful of the several bitter drops
in her sweet cup of life.  Carmichael had ridden out of Pine,
ostensibly on the trail of the Mexicans who had executed
Beasley's commands.  The last seen of him had been reported
from Show Down, where he had appeared red-eyed and
dangerous, like a hound on a scent.  Then two months had
flown by without a word.

Dale had shaken his head doubtfully when interrogated about
the cowboy's absence.  It would be just like Las Vegas never
to be heard of again.  Also it would be more like him to
remain away until all trace of his drunken, savage spell had
departed from him and had been forgotten by his friends.  Bo
took his disappearance apparently less to heart than Helen.
But Bo grew more restless, wilder, and more wilful than
ever.  Helen thought she guessed Bo's secret; and once she
ventured a hint concerning Carmichael's return.

"If Tom doesn't come back pretty soon I'll marry Milt Dale,"
retorted Bo, tauntingly.

This fired Helen's cheeks with red.

"But, child," she protested, half angry, half grave.  "Milt
and I are engaged."

"Sure.  Only you're so slow.  There's many a slip -- you
know."

"Bo, I tell you Tom will come back," replied Helen,
earnestly.  "I feel it.  There was something fine in that
cowboy.  He understood me better than you or Milt, either. . . .
And he was perfectly wild in love with you."

"Oh!  WAS he?"

"Very much more than you deserved, Bo Rayner."

Then occurred one of Bo's sweet, bewildering, unexpected
transformations.  Her defiance, resentment, rebelliousness,
vanished from a softly agitated face.

"Oh, Nell, I know that. . . .  You just watch me if I ever
get another chance at him!  . . .  Then -- maybe he'd never
drink again!"

"Bo, be happy -- and be good.  Don't ride off any more --
don't tease the boys.  It'll all come right in the end."

Bo recovered her equanimity quickly enough.

"Humph!  You can afford to be cheerful.  You've got a man who
can't live when you're out of his sight.  He's like a fish on
dry land. . . .  And you -- why, once you were an old
pessimist!"

Bo was not to be consoled or changed.  Helen could only sigh
and pray that her convictions would be verified.


The first day of July brought an early thunder-storm, just
at sunrise.  It roared and flared and rolled away, leaving a
gorgeous golden cloud pageant in the sky and a fresh,
sweetly smelling, glistening green range that delighted
Helen's eye.

Birds were twittering in the arbors and bees were humming in
the flowers.  From the fields down along the brook came a
blended song of swamp-blackbird and meadow-lark.  A
clarion-voiced burro split the air with his coarse and
homely bray.  The sheep were bleating, and a soft baa of
little lambs came sweetly to Helen's ears.  She went her
usual rounds with more than usual zest and thrill.
Everywhere was color, activity, life.  The wind swept warm
and pine-scented down from the mountain heights, now black
and bold, and the great green slopes seemed to call to her.

At that very moment she came suddenly upon Dale, in his
shirt-sleeves, dusty and hot, standing motionless, gazing at
the distant mountains.  Helen's greeting startled him.

"I -- I was just looking away yonder," he said, smiling.  She
thrilled at the clear, wonderful light of his eyes.

"So was I -- a moment ago," she replied, wistfully.  "Do you
miss the forest -- very much?"

"Nell, I miss nothing.  But I'd like to ride with you under
the pines once more."

"We'll go," she cried.

"When?" he asked, eagerly.

"Oh -- soon!" And then with flushed face and downcast eyes
she passed on.  For long Helen had cherished a fond hope that
she might be married in Paradise Park, where she had fallen
in love with Dale and had realized herself.  But she had kept
that hope secret.  Dale's eager tone, his flashing eyes, had
made her feel that her secret was there in her telltale
face.

As she entered the lane leading to the house she encountered
one of the new stable-boys driving a pack-mule.

"Jim, whose pack is that?" she asked.

"Ma'am, I dunno, but I heard him tell Roy he reckoned his
name was mud," replied the boy, smiling.

Helen's heart gave a quick throb.  That sounded like Las
Vegas.  She hurried on, and upon entering the courtyard she
espied Roy Beeman holding the halter of a beautiful,
wild-looking mustang.  There was another horse with another
man, who was in the act of dismounting on the far side.  When
he stepped into better view Helen recognized Las Vegas.  And
he saw her at the same instant.

Helen did not look up again until she was near the porch.
She had dreaded this meeting, yet she was so glad that she
could have cried aloud.

"Miss Helen, I shore am glad to see you," he said, standing
bareheaded before her, the same young, frank-faced cowboy
she had seen first from the train.

"Tom!" she exclaimed, and offered her hands.

He wrung them hard while he looked at her.  The swift woman's
glance Helen gave in return seemed to drive something dark
and doubtful out of her heart.  This was the same boy she had
known -- whom she had liked so well -- who had won her
sister's love.  Helen imagined facing him thus was like
awakening from a vague nightmare of doubt.  Carmichael's face
was clean, fresh, young, with its healthy tan; it wore the
old glad smile, cool, easy, and natural; his eyes were like
Dale's -- penetrating, clear as crystal, without a shadow.
What had evil, drink, blood, to do with the real inherent
nobility of this splendid specimen of Western hardihood?
Wherever he had been, whatever he had done during that long
absence, he had returned long separated from that wild and
savage character she could now forget.  Perhaps there would
never again be call for it.

"How's my girl?" he asked, just as naturally as if he had
been gone a few days on some errand of his employer's.

"Bo?  Oh, she's well -- fine.  I -- I rather think she'll be
glad to see you," replied Helen, warmly.

"An' how's thet big Indian, Dale?" he drawled.

"Well, too -- I'm sure."

"Reckon I got back heah in time to see you-all married?"

"I -- I assure you I -- no one around here has been married
yet," replied Helen, with a blush.

"Thet shore is fine.  Was some worried," he said, lazily.
"I've been chasin' wild hosses over in New Mexico, an' I got
after this heah blue roan.  He kept me chasin' him fer a
spell.  I've fetched him back for Bo."

Helen looked at the mustang Roy was holding, to be instantly
delighted.  He was a roan almost blue in color, neither large
nor heavy, but powerfully built, clean-limbed, and racy,
with a long mane and tail, black as coal, and a beautiful
head that made Helen love him at once.

"Well, I'm jealous," declared Helen, archly.  "I never did
see such a pony."

"I reckoned you'd never ride any hoss but Ranger," said Las
Vegas.

"No, I never will.  But I can be jealous, anyhow, can't I?"

"Shore.  An I reckon if you say you're goin' to have him --
wal, Bo 'd be funny," he drawled.

"I reckon she would be funny," retorted Helen.  She was so
happy that she imitated his speech.  She wanted to hug him.
It was too good to be true -- the return of this cowboy.  He
understood her.  He had come back with nothing that could
alienate her.  He had apparently forgotten the terrible role
he had accepted and the doom he had meted out to her
enemies.  That moment was wonderful for Helen in its
revelation of the strange significance of the West as
embodied in this cowboy.  He was great.  But he did not know
that.

Then the door of the living-room opened, and a sweet, high
voice pealed out:

"Roy!  Oh, what a mustang!  Whose is he?"

"Wal, Bo, if all I hear is so he belongs to you," replied
Roy with a huge grin.

Bo appeared in the door.  She stepped out upon the porch.  She
saw the cowboy.  The excited flash of her pretty face
vanished as she paled.

"Bo, I shore am glad to see you," drawled Las Vegas, as he
stepped forward, sombrero in hand.  Helen could not see any
sign of confusion in him.  But, indeed, she saw gladness.
Then she expected to behold Bo run right into the cowboys's
arms.  It appeared, however, that she was doomed to
disappointment.

"Tom, I'm glad to see you," she replied.

They shook hands as old friends.

"You're lookin' right fine," he said.

"Oh, I'm well. . . .  And how have you been these six
months?" she queried.

"Reckon I though it was longer," he drawled.  "Wal, I'm
pretty tip-top now, but I was laid up with heart trouble for
a spell."

"Heart trouble?" she echoed, dubiously.

"Shore. . . .  I ate too much over heah in New Mexico."

"It's no news to me -- where your heart's located," laughed
Bo.  Then she ran off the porch to see the blue mustang.  She
walked round and round him, clasping her hands in sheer
delight.

"Bo, he's a plumb dandy," said Roy.  "Never seen a prettier
hoss.  He'll run like a streak.  An' he's got good eyes.  He'll
be a pet some day.  But I reckon he'll always be spunky."

"Bo ventured to step closer, and at last got a hand on the
mustang, and then another.  She smoothed his quivering neck
and called softly to him, until he submitted to her hold.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Blue somethin' or other," replied Roy.

"Tom, has my new mustang a name?" asked Bo, turning to the
cowboy.

"Shore."

"What then?"

"Wal, I named him Blue-Bo," answered Las Vegas, with a
smile.

"Blue-Boy?"

"Nope.  He's named after you.  An' I chased him, roped him,
broke him all myself."

"Very well.  Blue-Bo he is, then. . . .  And he's a wonderful
darling horse.  Oh, Nell, just look at him. . . .  Tom, I
can't thank you enough."

"Reckon I don't want any thanks," drawled the cowboy.  "But
see heah, Bo, you shore got to live up to conditions before
you ride him."

"What!" exclaimed Bo, who was startled by his slow, cool,
meaning tone, of voice.

Helen delighted in looking at Las Vegas then.  He had never
appeared to better advantage.  So cool, careless, and
assured!  He seemed master of a situation in which his terms
must be accepted.  Yet he might have been actuated by a
cowboy motive beyond the power of Helen to divine.

"Bo Rayner," drawled Las Vegas, "thet blue mustang will be
yours, an' you can ride him -- when you're MRS.  TOM
CARMICHAEL!"

Never had he spoken a softer, more drawling speech, nor
gazed at Bo more mildly.  Roy seemed thunderstruck.  Helen
endeavored heroically to restrain her delicious, bursting
glee.  Bo's wide eyes stared at her lover -- darkened --
dilated.  Suddenly she left the mustang to confront the
cowboy where he lounged on the porch steps.

"Do you mean that?" she cried.

"Shore do."

"Bah!  It's only a magnificent bluff," she retorted.  "You're
only in fun.  It's your -- your darned nerve!"

"Why, Bo," began Las Vegas, reproachfully.  "You shore know
I'm not the four-flusher kind.  Never got away with a bluff
in my life!  An' I'm jest in daid earnest aboot this heah."

All the same, signs were not wanting in his mobile face that
he was almost unable to restrain his mirth.

Helen realized then that Bo saw through the cowboy -- that
the ultimatum was only one of his tricks.

"It IS a bluff and I CALL you!" declared Bo, ringingly.

Las Vegas suddenly awoke to consequences.  He essayed to
speak, but she was so wonderful then, so white and
blazing-eyed, that he was stricken mute.

"I'll ride Blue-Bo this afternoon," deliberately stated the
girl.

Las Vegas had wit enough to grasp her meaning, and he seemed
about to collapse.

"Very well, you can make me Mrs.  Tom Carmichael to-day --
this morning -- just before dinner. . . .  Go get a preacher
to marry us -- and make yourself look a more presentable
bridegroom -- UNLESS IT WAS ONLY A BLUFF!"

Her imperiousness changed as the tremendous portent of her
words seemed to make Las Vegas a blank, stone image of a
man.  With a wild-rose color suffusing her face, she swiftly
bent over him, kissed him, and flashed away into the house.
Her laugh pealed back, and it thrilled Helen, so deep and
strange was it for the wilful sister, so wild and merry and
full of joy.

It was then that Roy Beeman recovered from his paralysis, to
let out such a roar of mirth as to frighten the horses.
Helen was laughing, and crying, too, but laughing mostly.
Las Vegas Carmichael was a sight for the gods to behold.
Bo's kiss had unclamped what had bound him.  The sudden
truth, undeniable, insupportable, glorious, made him a
madman.

"Bluff -- she called me -- ride Blue-Bo saf'ternoon!" he
raved, reaching wildly for Helen.  "Mrs.  -- Tom -- Carmichael
-- before dinner -- preacher -- presentable bridegroom! . . .
Aw!  I'm drunk again!  I -- who swore off forever!"

"No, Tom, you're just happy," said Helen.

Between her and Roy the cowboy was at length persuaded to
accept the situation and to see his wonderful opportunity.

"Now -- now, Miss Helen -- what'd Bo mean by pre --
presentable bridegroom?  . . .  Presents?  Lord, I'm clean
busted flat!"

"She meant you must dress up in your best, of course,"
replied Helen.

"Where 'n earth will I get a preacher?  . . .  Show Down's
forty miles. . . .  Can't ride there in time. . . .  Roy, I've
gotta have a preacher. . . .  Life or death deal fer me."

"Wal, old man, if you'll brace up I'll marry you to Bo,"
said Roy, with his glad grin.

"Aw!" gasped Las Vegas, as if at the coming of a sudden
beautiful hope.

"Tom, I'm a preacher," replied Roy, now earnestly.  "You
didn't know thet, but I am.  An' I can marry you an' Bo as
good as any one, an' tighter 'n most."

Las Vegas reached for his friend as a drowning man might
have reached for solid rock.

"Roy, can you really marry them -- with my Bible -- and the
service of my church?" asked Helen, a happy hope flushing
her face.

"Wal, indeed I can.  I've married more 'n one couple whose
religion wasn't mine."

"B-b-before -- d-d-din-ner!" burst out Las Vegas, like a
stuttering idiot.

"I reckon.  Come on, now, an' make yourself pre-senttible,"
said Roy.  "Miss Helen, you tell Bo thet it's all settled."

He picked up the halter on the blue mustang and turned away
toward the corrals.  Las Vegas put the bridle of his horse
over his arm, and seemed to be following in a trance, with
his dazed, rapt face held high.

"Bring Dale," called Helen, softly after them.


So it came about as naturally as it was wonderful that Bo
rode the blue mustang before the afternoon ended.

Las Vegas disobeyed his first orders from Mrs.  Tom
Carmichael and rode out after her toward the green-rising
range.  Helen seemed impelled to follow.  She did not need to
ask Dale the second time.  They rode swiftly, but never
caught up with Bo and Las Vegas, whose riding resembled
their happiness.

Dale read Helen's mind, or else his own thoughts were in
harmony with hers, for he always seemed to speak what she
was thinking.  And as they rode homeward he asked her in his
quiet way if they could not spare a few days to visit his
old camp.

"And take Bo -- and Tom?  Oh, of all things I'd like to'" she
replied.

"Yes -- an' Roy, too," added Dale, significantly.

"Of course," said Helen, lightly, as if she had not caught
his meaning.  But she turned her eyes away, while her heart
thumped disgracefully and all her body was aglow.  "Will Tom
and Bo go?"

"It was Tom who got me to ask you," replied Dale.  "John an'
Hal can look after the men while we're gone."

"Oh -- so Tom put it in your head?  I guess -- maybe -- I
won't go."

"It is always in my mind, Nell," he said, with his slow
seriousness.  "I'm goin' to work all my life for you.  But
I'll want to an' need to go back to the woods often. . . .
An' if you ever stoop to marry me -- an' make me the richest
of men -- you'll have to marry me up there where I fell in
love with you."

"Ah!  Did Las Vegas Tom Carmichael say that, too?" inquired
Helen, softly.

"Nell, do you want to know what Las Vegas said?"

"By all means."

"He said this -- an' not an hour ago.  'Milt, old hoss, let
me give you a hunch.  I'm a man of family now -- an' I've
been a devil with the wimmen in my day.  I can see through
'em.  Don't marry Nell Rayner in or near the house where I
killed Beasley.  She'd remember.  An' don't let her remember
thet day.  Go off into the woods.  Paradise Park!  Bo an' me
will go with you."

Helen gave him her hand, while they walked the horses
homeward in the long sunset shadows.  In the fullness of that
happy hour she had time for a grateful wonder at the keen
penetration of the cowboy Carmichael.  Dale had saved her
life, but it was Las Vegas who had saved her happiness.


Not many days later, when again the afternoon shadows were
slanting low, Helen rode out upon the promontory where the
dim trail zigzagged far above Paradise Park.

Roy was singing as he drove the pack-burros down the slope;
Bo and Las Vegas were trying to ride the trail two abreast,
so they could hold hands; Dale had dismounted to stand
beside Helen's horse, as she gazed down the shaggy black
slopes to the beautiful wild park with its gray meadows and
shining ribbons of brooks.

It was July, and there were no golden-red glorious flames
and blazes of color such as lingered in Helen's memory.
Black spruce slopes and green pines and white streaks of
aspens and lacy waterfall of foam and dark outcroppings of
rock--these colors and forms greeted her gaze with all the
old enchantment.  Wildness, beauty, and loneliness were
there, the same as ever, immutable, like the spirit of those
heights.

Helen would fain have lingered longer, but the others
called, and Ranger impatiently snorted his sense of the
grass and water far below.  And she knew that when she
climbed there again to the wide outlook she would be another
woman.

"Nell, come on," said Dale, as he led on.  "It's better to
look up."


The sun had just sunk behind the ragged fringe of
mountain-rim when those three strong and efficient men of
the open had pitched camp and had prepared a bountiful
supper.  Then Roy Beeman took out the little worn Bible which
Helen had given him to use when he married Bo, and as he
opened it a light changed his dark face.

"Come, Helen an' Dale," he said.

They arose to stand before him.  And he married them there
under the great, stately pines, with the fragrant blue smoke
curling upward, and the wind singing through the branches,
while the waterfall murmured its low, soft, dreamy music,
and from the dark slope came the wild, lonely cry of a wolf,
full of the hunger for life and a mate.

"Let us pray," said Roy, as he closed the Bible, and knelt
with them.

"There is only one God, an' Him I beseech in my humble
office for the woman an' man I have just wedded in holy
bonds.  Bless them an' watch them an' keep them through all
the comin' years.  Bless the sons of this strong man of the
woods an' make them like him, with love an' understandin' of
the source from which life comes.  Bless the daughters of
this woman an' send with them more of her love an' soul,
which must be the softenin' an' the salvation of the hard
West.  O Lord, blaze the dim, dark trail for them through the
unknown forest of life!  O Lord, lead the way across the
naked range of the future no mortal knows!  We ask in Thy
name!  Amen."

When the preacher stood up again and raised the couple from
their kneeling posture, it seemed that a grave and solemn
personage had left him.  This young man was again the
dark-faced, clear-eyed Roy, droll and dry, with the
enigmatic smile on his lips.

"Mrs.  Dale," he said, taking her hands, "I wish you joy. . . .
An' now, after this here, my crownin' service in your
behalf -- I reckon I'll claim a reward."

Then he kissed her.  Bo came next with her warm and loving
felicitations, and the cowboy, with characteristic action,
also made at Helen.

"Nell, shore it's the only chance I'll ever have to kiss
you," he drawled.  "Because when this heah big Indian once
finds out what kissin' is --!"

Las Vegas then proved how swift and hearty he could be upon
occasions.  All this left Helen red and confused and
unutterably happy.  She appreciated Dale's state.  His eyes
reflected the precious treasure which manifestly he saw, but
realization of ownership had not yet become demonstrable.

Then with gay speech and happy laugh and silent look these
five partook of the supper.  When it was finished Roy made
known his intention to leave.  They all protested and coaxed,
but to no avail.  He only laughed and went on saddling his
horse.

"Roy, please stay," implored Helen.  "The day's almost ended.
You're tired."

"Nope.  I'll never be no third party when there's only two."

"But there are four of us."

"Didn't I just make you an' Dale one?  . . .  An', Mrs.  Dale,
you forget I've been married more 'n once."

Helen found herself confronted by an unanswerable side of
the argument.  Las Vegas rolled on the grass in his mirth.
Dale looked strange.

"Roy, then that's why you're so nice," said Bo, with a
little devil in her eyes.  "Do you know I had my mind made up
if Tom hadn't come around I was going to make up to you,
Roy. . . .  I sure was.  What number wife would I have been?"

It always took Bo to turn the tables on anybody.  Roy looked
mightily embarrassed.  And the laugh was on him.  He did not
face them again until he had mounted.

"Las Vegas, I've done my best for you -- hitched you to thet
blue-eyed girl the best I know how," he declared.  "But I
shore ain't guaranteein' nothin'.  You'd better build a
corral for her."

"Why, Roy, you shore don't savvy the way to break these wild
ones," drawled Las Vegas.  "Bo will be eatin' out of my hand
in about a week."

Bo's blue eyes expressed an eloquent doubt as to this
extraordinary claim.

"Good-by, friends," said Roy, and rode away to disappear in
the spruces.

Thereupon Bo and Las Vegas forgot Roy, and Dale and Helen,
the camp chores to be done, and everything else except
themselves.  Helen's first wifely duty was to insist that she
should and could and would help her husband with the work of
cleaning up after the sumptuous supper.  Before they had
finished a sound startled them.  It came from Roy, evidently
high on the darkening slope, and was a long, mellow pealing
halloo, that rang on the cool air, burst the dreamy silence,
and rapped across from slope to slope and cliff to cliff, to
lose its power and die away hauntingly in the distant
recesses.

Dale shook his head as if he did not care to attempt a reply
to that beautiful call.  Silence once again enfolded the
park, and twilight seemed to be born of the air, drifting
downward.

"Nell, do you miss anythin'?" asked Dale.

"No.  Nothing in all the world," she murmured.  "I am happier
than I ever dared pray to be."

"I don't mean people or things.  I mean my pets."

"Ah!  I had forgotten. . . .  Milt, where are they?"

"Gone back to the wild," he said.  "They had to live in my
absence.  An' I've been away long."

Just then the brooding silence, with its soft murmur of
falling water and faint sigh of wind in the pines, was
broken by a piercing scream, high, quivering, like that of a
woman in exquisite agony.

"That's Tom!" exclaimed Dale.

"Oh -- I was so -- so frightened!" whispered Helen.

Bo came running, with Las Vegas at her heels.

"Milt, that was your tame cougar," cried Bo, excitedly.  "Oh,
I'll never forget him!  I'll hear those cries in my dreams!"

"Yes, it was Tom," said Dale, thoughtfully.  "But I never
heard him cry just like that."

"Oh, call him in!"

Dale whistled and called, but Tom did not come.  Then the
hunter stalked off in the gloom to call from different
points under the slope.  After a while he returned without
the cougar.  And at that moment, from far up the dark ravine,
drifted down the same wild cry, only changed by distance,
strange and tragic in its meaning.

"He scented us.  He remembers.  But he'll never come back,"
said Dale.


Helen felt stirred anew with the convictions of Dale's deep
knowledge of life and nature.  And her imagination seemed to
have wings.  How full and perfect her trust, her happiness in
the realization that her love and her future, her children,
and perhaps grandchildren, would come under the guidance of
such a man!  Only a little had she begun to comprehend the
secrets of good and ill in their relation to the laws of
nature.  Ages before men had lived on the earth there had
been the creatures of the wilderness, and the holes of the
rocks, and the nests of the trees, and rain, frost, heat,
dew, sunlight and night, storm and calm, the honey of the
wildflower and the instinct of the bee -- all the beautiful
and multiple forms of life with their inscrutable design.  To
know something of them and to love them was to be close to
the kingdom of earth -- perhaps to the greater kingdom of
heaven.  For whatever breathed and moved was a part of that
creation.  The coo of the dove, the lichen on the mossy rock,
the mourn of a hunting wolf, and the murmur of the
waterfall, the ever-green and growing tips of the spruces,
and the thunderbolts along the battlements of the heights --
these one and all must be actuated by the great spirit --
that incalculable thing in the universe which had produced
man and soul.

And there in the starlight, under the wide-gnarled pines,
sighing low with the wind, Helen sat with Dale on the old
stone that an avalanche of a million years past had flung
from the rampart above to serve as camp-table and bench for
lovers in the wilderness; the sweet scent of spruce mingled
with the fragrance of wood-smoke blown in their faces.  How
white the stars, and calm and true!  How they blazed their
single task!  A coyote yelped off on the south slope, dark
now as midnight.  A bit of weathered rock rolled and tapped
from shelf to shelf.  And the wind moaned.  Helen felt all the
sadness and mystery and nobility of this lonely fastness,
and full on her heart rested the supreme consciousness that
all would some day be well with the troubled world beyond.

"Nell, I'll homestead this park," said Dale.  "Then it'll
always be ours."

"Homestead!  What's that?" murmured Helen, dreamily.  The word
sounded sweet.

"The government will give land to men who locate an' build,"
replied Dale.  "We'll run up a log cabin."

"And come here often. . . .  Paradise Park!" whispered Helen.

Dale's first kisses were on her lips then, hard and cool and
clean, like the life of the man, singularly exalting to her,
completing her woman's strange and unutterable joy of the
hour, and rendering her mute.

Bo's melodious laugh, and her voice with its old mockery of
torment, drifted softly on the night breeze.  And the
cowboy's "Aw, Bo," drawling his reproach and longing, was
all that the tranquil, waiting silence needed.

Paradise Park was living again one of its romances.  Love was
no stranger to that lonely fastness.  Helen heard in the
whisper of the wind through the pine the old-earth story,
beautiful, ever new, and yet eternal.  She thrilled to her
depths.  The spar-pointed spruces stood up black and clear
against the noble stars.  All that vast solitude breathed and
waited, charged full with its secret, ready to reveal itself
to her tremulous soul.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Man of the Forest, by Zane Grey