The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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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!”
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
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