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

outlaw gun-fighter if—black night and Dale and horse and rides and starved and, “Oh, Nell, he WAS from Texas!”

Helen gathered that wonderful and dreadful events had hung over the bright head of this beloved little sister, but the bewilderment occasioned by Bo's fluent and remarkable utterance left only that last sentence clear.

Presently Helen got a word in to inform Bo that Mrs. Cass had knocked twice for supper, and that welcome news checked Bo's flow of speech when nothing else seemed adequate.

It was obvious to Helen that Roy and Dale had exchanged stories. Roy celebrated this reunion by sitting at table the first time since he had been shot; and despite Helen's misfortune and the suspended waiting balance in the air the occasion was joyous. Old Mrs. Cass was in the height of her glory. She sensed a romance here, and, true to her sex, she radiated to it.

Daylight was still lingering when Roy got up and went out on the porch. His keen ears had heard something. Helen fancied she herself had heard rapid hoof-beats.

“Dale, come out!” called Roy, sharply.

The hunter moved with his swift, noiseless agility. Helen and Bo followed, halting in the door.

“Thet's Las Vegas,” whispered Dale.

To Helen it seemed that the cowboy's name changed the very atmosphere.

Voices were heard at the gate; one that, harsh and quick, sounded like Carmichael's. And a spirited horse was pounding and scattering gravel. Then a lithe figure appeared, striding up the path. It was Carmichael—yet not the Carmichael Helen knew. She heard Bo's strange little cry, a corroboration of her own impression.

Roy might never have been shot, judging from the way he stepped out, and Dale was almost as quick. Carmichael reached them—grasped them with swift, hard hands.

“Boys—I jest rode in. An' they said you'd found her!”

“Shore, Las Vegas. Dale fetched her home safe an' sound.... There she is.”

The cowboy thrust aside the two men, and with a long stride he faced the porch, his piercing eyes on the door. All that Helen could think of his look was that it seemed terrible. Bo stepped outside in front of Helen. Probably she would have run straight into Carmichael's arms if some strange instinct had not withheld her. Helen judged it to be fear; she found her heart lifting painfully.

“Bo!” he yelled, like a savage, yet he did not in the least resemble one.

“Oh—Tom!” cried Bo, falteringly. She half held out her arms.

“You, girl?” That seemed to be his piercing query, like the quivering blade in his eyes. Two more long strides carried him close up to her, and his look chased the red out of Bo's cheek. Then it was beautiful to see his face marvelously change until it was that of the well remembered Las Vegas magnified in all his old spirit.

“Aw!” The exclamation was a tremendous sigh. “I shore am glad!”

That beautiful flash left his face as he wheeled to the men. He wrung Dale's hand long and hard, and his gaze confused the older man.

“RIGGS!” he said, and in the jerk of his frame as he whipped out the word disappeared the strange, fleeting signs of his kindlier emotion.

“Wilson killed him,” replied Dale.

“Jim Wilson—that old Texas Ranger!... Reckon he lent you a hand?”

“My friend, he saved Bo,” replied Dale, with emotion. “My old cougar an' me—we just hung 'round.”

“You made Wilson help you?” cut in the hard voice.

“Yes. But he killed Riggs before I come up an' I reckon he'd done well by Bo if I'd never got there.”

“How about the gang?”

“All snuffed out, I reckon, except Wilson.”

“Somebody told me Beasley hed ran Miss Helen off the ranch. Thet so?”

“Yes. Four of his greasers packed her down the hill—most tore her clothes off, so Roy tells me.”

“Four greasers!... Shore it was Beasley's deal clean through?”

“Yes. Riggs was led. He had an itch for a bad name, you know. But Beasley made the plan. It was Nell they wanted instead of Bo.”

Abruptly Carmichael stalked off down the darkening path, his silver heel-plates ringing, his spurs jingling.

“Hold on, Carmichael,” called Dale, taking a step.

“Oh, Tom!” cried Bo.

“Shore folks callin' won't be no use, if anythin would be,” said Roy. “Las Vegas has hed a look at red liquor.”

“He's been drinking! Oh, that accounts!... he never—never even touched me!”

For once Helen was not ready to comfort Bo. A mighty tug at her heart had sent her with flying, uneven steps toward Dale. He took another stride down the path, and another.

“Dale—oh—please stop!” she called, very low.

He halted as if he had run sharply into a bar across the path. When he turned Helen had come close. Twilight was deep there in the shade of the peach-trees, but she could see his face, the hungry, flaring eyes.

“I—I haven't thanked you—yet—for bringing Bo home,” she whispered.

“Nell, never mind that,” he said, in surprise. “If you must—why, wait. I've got to catch up with that cowboy.”

“No. Let me thank you now,” she whispered, and, stepping closer, she put her arms up, meaning to put them round his neck. That action must be her self-punishment for the other time she had done it. Yet it might also serve to thank him. But, strangely, her hands got no farther than his breast, and fluttered there to catch hold of the fringe of his buckskin jacket. She felt a heave of his deep chest.

“I—I do thank you—with all my heart,” she said, softly. “I owe you now—for myself and her—more than I can ever repay.”

“Nell, I'm your friend,” he replied, hurriedly. “Don't talk of repayin' me. Let me go now—after Las Vegas.”

“What for?” she queried, suddenly.

“I mean to line up beside him—at the bar—or wherever he goes,” returned Dale.

“Don't tell me that. I know. You're going straight to meet Beasley.”

“Nell, if you hold me up any longer I reckon I'll have to run—or never get to Beasley before that cowboy.”

Helen locked her fingers in the fringe of his jacket—leaned closer to him, all her being responsive to a bursting gust of blood over her.

“I'll not let you go,” she said.

He laughed, and put his great