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

“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