The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗

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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 cowpuncher, 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