The Man of the Forest, Zane Grey [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

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