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

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'