The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (read me like a book txt) 📗

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