The Pan Handle of Texas, the old Chisholm Trail along which were driven the great cattle herds northward, Fort Dodge, where the cowboys conflicted with the card-sharps—these hard places had left their marks on Carmichael. To come from Texas was to come from fighting stock. And a cowboy's life was strenuous, wild, violent, and generally brief. The exceptions were the fortunate and the swiftest men with guns; and they drifted from south to north and west, taking with them the reckless, chivalrous, vitriolic spirit peculiar to their breed.
The pioneers and ranchers of the frontier would never have made the West habitable had it not been for these wild cowboys, these hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-living rangers of the barrens, these easy, cool, laconic, simple young men whose blood was tinged with fire and who possessed a magnificent and terrible effrontery toward danger and death.
Las Vegas ran his horse from Widow Cass's cottage to Turner's saloon, and the hoofs of the goaded steed crashed in the door. Las Vegas's entrance was a leap. Then he stood still with the door ajar and the horse pounding and snorting back. All the men in that saloon who saw the entrance of Las Vegas knew what it portended. No thunderbolt could have more quickly checked the drinking, gambling, talking crowd. They recognized with kindred senses the nature of the man and his arrival. For a second the blue-hazed room was perfectly quiet, then men breathed, moved, rose, and suddenly caused a quick, sliding crash of chairs and tables.
The cowboy's glittering eyes flashed to and fro, and then fixed on Mulvey and his Mexican companion. That glance singled out these two, and the sudden rush of nervous men proved it. Mulvey and the sheep-herder were left alone in the center of the floor.
“Howdy, Jeff! Where's your boss?” asked Las Vegas. His voice was cool, friendly; his manner was easy, natural; but the look of him was what made Mulvey pale and the Mexican livid.
“Reckon he's home,” replied Mulvey.
“Home? What's he call home now?”
“He's hangin' out hyar at Auchincloss's,” replied Mulvey. His voice was not strong, but his eyes were steady, watchful.
Las Vegas quivered all over as if stung. A flame that seemed white and red gave his face a singular hue.
“Jeff, you worked for old Al a long time, an' I've heard of your differences,” said Las Vegas. “Thet ain't no mix of mine.... But you double-crossed Miss Helen!”
Mulvey made no attempt to deny this. He gulped slowly. His hands appeared less steady, and he grew paler. Again Las Vegas's words signified less than his look. And that look now included the Mexican.
“Pedro, you're one of Beasley's old hands,” said Las Vegas, accusingly. “An'—you was one of them four greasers thet—”
Here the cowboy choked and bit over his words as if they were a material poison. The Mexican showed his guilt and cowardice. He began to jabber.
“Shet up!” hissed Las Vegas, with a savage and significant jerk of his arm, as if about to strike. But that action was read for its true meaning. Pell-mell the crowd split to rush each way and leave an open space behind the three.
Las Vegas waited. But Mulvey seemed obstructed. The Mexican looked dangerous through his fear. His fingers twitched as if the tendons running up into his arms were being pulled.
An instant of suspense—more than long enough for Mulvey to be tried and found wanting—and Las Vegas, with laugh and sneer, turned his back upon the pair and stepped to the bar. His call for a bottle made Turner jump and hold it out with shaking hands. Las Vegas poured out a drink, while his gaze was intent on the scarred old mirror hanging behind the bar.
This turning his back upon men he had just dared to draw showed what kind of a school Las Vegas had been trained in. If those men had been worthy antagonists of his class he would never have scorned them. As it was, when Mulvey and the Mexican jerked at their guns, Las Vegas swiftly wheeled and shot twice. Mulvey's gun went off as he fell, and the Mexican doubled up in a heap on the floor. Then Las Vegas reached around with his left hand for the drink he had poured out.
At this juncture Dale burst into the saloon, suddenly to check his impetus, to swerve aside toward the bar and halt. The door had not ceased swinging when again it was propelled inward, this time to admit Helen Rayner, white and wide-eyed.
In another moment then Las Vegas had spoken his deadly toast to Beasley's gang and had fiercely flung the glass at the writhing Mexican on the floor. Also Dale had gravitated toward the reeling Helen to catch her when she fainted.
Las Vegas began to curse, and, striding to Dale, he pushed him out of the saloon.
“—! What 're you doin' heah?” he yelled, stridently. “Hevn't you got thet girl to think of? Then do it, you big Indian! Lettin' her run after you heah—riskin' herself thet way! You take care of her an' Bo an' leave this deal to me!”
The cowboy, furious as he was at Dale, yet had keen, swift eyes for the horses near at hand, and the men out in the dim light. Dale lifted the girl into his arms, and, turning without a word, stalked away to disappear in the darkness. Las Vegas, holding his gun low, returned to the bar-room. If there had been any change in the crowd it was slight. The tension had relaxed. Turner no longer stood with hands up.
“You-all go on with your fun,” called the cowboy, with a sweep of his gun. “But it'd be risky fer any one to start leavin'.”
With that he backed against the bar, near where the black bottle stood. Turner walked out to begin righting tables and chairs, and presently the crowd, with some caution and suspense, resumed their games and drinking. It was significant that a wide berth lay between them and the door. From time to time Turner served liquor to men who called for it.
Las Vegas leaned with back against the bar. After a while he sheathed his gun and reached around for the bottle. He drank with his piercing eyes upon the door. No one entered and no one went out. The games of chance there and the drinking were not enjoyed. It was a hard scene—that smoky, long, ill-smelling room, with its dim, yellow lights, and dark, evil faces, with the stealthy-stepping Turner passing to and fro, and the dead Mulvey staring in horrible fixidity at the ceiling, and the Mexican quivering more and more until he shook violently, then lay still, and with the drinking, somber, waiting cowboy, more fiery and more flaming with every drink, listening for a step that did not come.
Time passed, and what little change it wrought was in the cowboy. Drink affected him, but he did not become drunk. It seemed that the liquor he drank was consumed by a mounting fire. It was fuel to a driving passion. He grew more sullen, somber, brooding, redder of eye and face, more crouching and restless. At last, when the hour was so late that there was no probability of Beasley appearing, Las Vegas flung himself out of the saloon.
All lights of the village had now been extinguished. The tired horses drooped in the darkness. Las Vegas found his horse and led him away down the road and out a lane to a field where a barn stood dim and dark in the starlight. Morning was not far off. He unsaddled the horse and, turning him loose, went into the barn. Here he seemed familiar with his surroundings, for he found a ladder and climbed to a loft, where he threw himself on the hay.
He rested, but did not sleep. At daylight he went down and brought his horse into the barn. Sunrise found Las Vegas pacing to and fro the short length of the interior, and peering out through wide cracks between the boards. Then during the succeeding couple of hours he watched the occasional horseman and wagon and herder that passed on into the village.
About the breakfast hour Las Vegas saddled his horse and rode back the way he had come the night before. At Turner's he called for something to eat as well as for whisky. After that he became a listening, watching machine. He drank freely for an hour; then he stopped. He seemed to be drunk, but with a different kind of drunkenness from that usual in drinking men. Savage, fierce, sullen, he was one to avoid. Turner waited on him in evident fear.
At length Las Vegas's condition became such that action was involuntary. He could not stand still nor sit down. Stalking out, he passed the store, where men slouched back to avoid him, and he went down the road, wary and alert, as if he expected a rifle-shot from some hidden enemy. Upon his return down that main thoroughfare of the village not a person was to be seen. He went in to Turner's. The proprietor was there at his post, nervous and pale. Las Vegas did not order any more liquor.
“Turner, I reckon I'll bore you next time I run in heah,” he said, and stalked out.
He had the stores, the road, the village, to himself; and he patrolled a beat like a sentry watching for an Indian attack.
Toward noon a single man ventured out into the road to accost the cowboy.
“Las Vegas, I'm tellin' you—all the greasers air leavin' the range,” he said.
“Howdy, Abe!” replied Las Vegas. “What 'n hell you talkin' about?”
The man repeated his information. And Las Vegas spat out frightful curses.
“Abe—you heah what Beasley's doin'?”
“Yes. He's with his men—up at the ranch. Reckon he can't put off ridin' down much longer.”
That was where the West spoke. Beasley would be forced to meet the enemy who had come out single-handed against him. Long before this hour a braver man would have come to face Las Vegas. Beasley could not hire any gang to bear the brunt of this situation. This was the test by which even his own men must judge him. All of which was to say that as the wildness of the West had made possible his crimes, so it now held him responsible for them.
“Abe, if thet—greaser don't rustle down heah I'm goin' after him.”
“Sure. But don't be in no hurry,” replied Abe.
“I'm waltzin' to slow music.... Gimme a smoke.”
With fingers that slightly trembled Abe rolled a cigarette, lit it from his own, and handed it to the cowboy.
“Las Vegas, I reckon I hear hosses,” he said, suddenly.
“Me, too,” replied Las Vegas, with his head high like that of a listening deer. Apparently he forgot the cigarette and also his friend. Abe hurried back to the store, where he disappeared.
Las Vegas began his stalking up and down, and his action now was an exaggeration of all his former movements. A rational, ordinary mortal from some Eastern community, happening to meet this red-faced cowboy, would have considered him drunk or crazy. Probably Las Vegas looked both. But all the same he was a marvelously keen and strung and efficient instrument to meet the portending issue. How many thousands of times, on the trails, and in the wide-streeted little towns all over the West, had this stalk of the cowboy's been perpetrated! Violent, bloody, tragic as it was, it had an importance in that pioneer day equal to the use of a horse or the need of a plow.
At length Pine was apparently a deserted village, except for Las Vegas, who patrolled his long beat in many ways—he lounged while he watched; he stalked like a mountaineer; he stole along Indian fashion, stealthily, from tree to tree, from corner to corner; he disappeared in the saloon to reappear at the back; he slipped round behind the barns to come out again in the main road; and time after time he approached his horse as if deciding to mount.
The last visit he made into Turner's saloon he found no one there. Savagely he pounded on the bar with his gun. He got no response. Then the long-pent-up rage burst. With wild whoops he pulled another gun and shot at the mirror, the lamps. He shot the neck off a bottle and drank till he choked, his neck corded, bulging, and purple. His only slow and deliberate action was the reloading of his gun. Then he crashed through the doors, and with a wild yell leaped sheer into the saddle, hauling his horse up high and goading him to plunge away.
Men running to the door and windows of the store saw a streak of dust flying down the road. And then they trooped out to see it disappear. The hour of suspense ended for them. Las Vegas had lived up to the code of the West, had dared his man out, had waited far longer than needful to prove that man a coward. Whatever the issue now, Beasley was branded forever. That moment saw the decline of whatever power he had wielded. He and his men might kill the cowboy who had ridden out alone to face him, but that would not change the brand.
The preceding night Beasley bad been finishing a late supper at his newly acquired ranch, when Buck Weaver, one of his men, burst in upon him with news of the death of Mulvey and Pedro.
“Who's in the outfit? How many?” he had questioned, quickly.
“It's a one-man outfit, boss,” replied Weaver.
Beasley appeared astounded. He and his men had prepared to meet the friends of the girl whose property he had taken over, and because of the superiority of his own force he had anticipated no bloody or extended feud. This amazing circumstance put the case in very much more difficult form.
“One man!” he ejaculated.
“Yep. Thet cowboy Las Vegas. An', boss, he turns out to be a gun-slinger from Texas. I was in Turner's. Hed jest happened to step in the other room when Las Vegas come bustin' in on his hoss an' jumped off.... Fust thing he called Jeff an' Pedro. They both showed yaller. An' then, damn if thet cowboy didn't turn his back on them an' went to the bar fer a drink. But he was lookin' in the mirror an' when Jeff an' Pedro went fer their guns why he whirled quick as lightnin' an' bored them both.... I sneaked out an—”
“Why didn't you bore him?” roared Beasley.
Buck Weaver steadily eyed his boss before he replied. “I ain't takin' shots at any fellar from behind doors. An' as fer meetin' Las Vegas—excoose me, boss! I've still a hankerin' fer sunshine an' red liquor. Besides, I 'ain't got nothin' ag'in' Las Vegas. If he's rustled over here at the head of a crowd to put us off I'd fight, jest as we'd all fight. But you see we figgered wrong. It's between you an' Las Vegas!... You oughter seen him throw thet hunter Dale out of Turner's.”
“Dale! Did he come?” queried Beasley.
“He got there just after the cowboy plugged Jeff. An' thet big-eyed girl, she came runnin' in, too. An' she keeled over in Dale's arms. Las Vegas shoved him out—cussed him so hard we all heerd.... So, Beasley, there ain't no fight comin' off as we figgered on.”
Beasley thus heard the West speak out of the mouth of his own man. And grim, sardonic, almost scornful, indeed, were the words of Buck Weaver. This rider had once worked for Al Auchincloss and had deserted to Beasley under Mulvey's leadership. Mulvey was dead and the situation was vastly changed.
Beasley gave Weaver a dark, lowering glance, and waved him away. From the door Weaver sent back a doubtful, scrutinizing gaze, then slouched out. That gaze Beasley had not encountered before.
It meant, as Weaver's cronies meant, as Beasley's long-faithful riders, and the people of the range, and as the spirit of the West meant, that Beasley was expected to march down into the village to face his single foe.
But Beasley did not go. Instead he paced to and fro the length of Helen Rayner's long sitting-room with the nervous energy of a man who could not rest. Many times he hesitated, and at others he made sudden movements toward the door, only to halt. Long after midnight he went to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn arose, gloomy and irritable.
He cursed the Mexican serving-women who showed their displeasure at his authority. And to his amaze and rage not one of his men came to the house. He waited and waited. Then he stalked off to the corrals and stables carrying a rifle with him. The men were there, in a group that dispersed somewhat at his advent. Not a Mexican was in sight.
Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go down into the village with him. That order was disobeyed. Beasley stormed and raged. His riders sat or lounged, with lowered faces. An unspoken hostility seemed present. Those who had been longest with him were least distant and strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley roared for his Mexicans.
“Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes sloped—gone these two hours—on the way to Magdalena,” said Buck Weaver.
Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was the most astounding. Beasley cursed with his questioning wonder.
“Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin' cowboy from Texas,” replied Weaver, imperturbably.
Beasley's dark, swarthy face changed its hue. What of the subtle reflection in Weaver's slow speech! One of the men came out of a corral leading Beasley's saddled and bridled horse. This fellow dropped the bridle and sat down among his comrades without a word. No one spoke. The presence of the horse was significant. With a snarling, muttered curse, Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the ranch-house.
In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had known for hours—that if he had stood any chance at all for their respect as well as for his life the hour was long past.
Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and when he got there he nervously poured out a drink. Evidently something in the fiery liquor frightened him, for he threw the bottle aside. It was as if that bottle contained a courage which was false.
Again he paced the long sitting-room, growing more and more wrought-up as evidently he grew familiar with the singular state of affairs. Twice the pale serving-woman called him to dinner.
The dining-room was light and pleasant, and the meal, fragrant and steaming, was ready for him. But the women had disappeared. Beasley seated himself—spread out his big hands on the table.
Then a slight rustle—a clink of spur—startled him. He twisted his head.
“Howdy, Beasley!” said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by magic.
Beasley's frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been loosed in his veins. Sweat-drops stood out on his pallid face.
“What—you—want?” he asked, huskily.
“Wal now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein' I am foreman heah, thet it'd be nice an' proper fer me to drop in an' eat with you—THE LAST TIME!” replied the cowboy. His drawl was slow and cool, his tone was friendly and pleasant. But his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its beak.
Beasley's reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.
Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.
“Eat or not, it's shore all the same to me,” said Las Vegas, and he began to load his plate with his left hand. His right hand rested very lightly, with just the tips of his vibrating fingers on the edge of the table; and he never for the slightest fraction of a second took his piercing eyes off Beasley.
“Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my blood to see you sittin' there—thinkin' you've put my boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch,” began Las Vegas, softly. And then he helped himself leisurely to food and drink. “In my day I've shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws, thieves, rustlers, an' sich like, but fer an out an' out dirty low-down skunk, you shore take the dough!... I'm goin, to kill you in a minit or so, jest as soon as you move one of them dirty paws of yourn. But I hope you'll be polite an' let me say a few words. I'll never be happy again if you don't.... Of all the—yaller greaser dogs I ever seen, you're the worst!... I was thinkin' last night mebbe you'd come down an' meet me like a man, so 's I could wash my hands ever afterward without gettin' sick to my stummick. But you didn't come.... Beasley, I'm so ashamed of myself thet I gotta call you—when I ought to bore you, thet—I ain't even second cousin to my old self when I rode fer Chisholm. It don't mean nuthin' to you to call you liar! robber! blackleg! a sneakin' coyote! an' a cheat thet hires others to do his dirty work!... By Gawd!—”
“Carmichael, gimme a word in,” hoarsely broke out Beasley. “You're right, it won't do no good to call me.... But let's talk.... I'll buy you off. Ten thousand dollars—”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Las Vegas. He was as tense as a strung cord and his face possessed a singular pale radiance. His right hand began to quiver more and more.
“I'll—double—it!” panted Beasley. “I'll—make over—half the ranch—all the stock—”
“Swaller thet!” yelled Las Vegas, with terrible strident ferocity.
“Listen—man!... I take—it back!... I'll give up—Auchincloss's ranch!” Beasley was now a shaking, whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with rolling eyes.
Las Vegas's left fist pounded hard on the table.
“GREASER, COME ON!” he thundered.
Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his gun.
For Helen Rayner that brief, dark period of expulsion from her home had become a thing of the past, almost forgotten.
Two months had flown by on the wings of love and work and the joy of finding her place there in the West. All her old men had been only too glad of the opportunity to come back to her, and under Dale and Roy Beeman a different and prosperous order marked the life of the ranch.
Helen had made changes in the house by altering the arrangement of rooms and adding a new section. Only once had she ventured into the old dining-room where Las Vegas Carmichael had sat down to that fatal dinner for Beasley. She made a store-room of it, and a place she would never again enter.
Helen was happy, almost too happy, she thought, and therefore made more than needful of the several bitter drops in her sweet cup of life. Carmichael had ridden out of Pine, ostensibly on the trail of the Mexicans who had executed Beasley's commands. The last seen of him had been reported from Show Down, where he had appeared red-eyed and dangerous, like a hound on a scent. Then two months had flown by without a word.
Dale had shaken his head doubtfully when interrogated about the cowboy's absence. It would be just like Las Vegas never to be heard of again. Also it would be more like him to remain away until all trace of his drunken, savage spell had departed from him and had been forgotten by his friends. Bo took his disappearance apparently less to heart than Helen. But Bo grew more restless, wilder, and more wilful than ever. Helen thought she guessed Bo's secret; and once she ventured a hint concerning Carmichael's return.
“If Tom doesn't come back pretty soon I'll marry Milt Dale,” retorted Bo, tauntingly.
This fired Helen's cheeks with red.
“But, child,” she protested, half angry, half grave. “Milt and I are engaged.”
“Sure. Only you're so slow. There's many a slip—you know.”
“Bo, I tell you Tom will come back,” replied Helen, earnestly. “I feel it. There was something fine in that cowboy. He understood me better than you or Milt, either.... And he was perfectly wild in love with you.”
“Oh! WAS he?”
“Very much more than you deserved, Bo Rayner.”
Then occurred one of Bo's sweet, bewildering, unexpected transformations. Her defiance, resentment, rebelliousness, vanished from a softly agitated face.
“Oh, Nell, I know that.... You just watch me if I ever get another chance at him!... Then—maybe he'd never drink again!”
“Bo, be happy—and be good. Don't ride off any more—don't tease the boys. It'll all come right in the end.”
Bo recovered her equanimity quickly enough.
“Humph! You can afford to be cheerful. You've got a man who can't live when you're out of his sight. He's like a fish on dry land.... And you—why, once you were an old pessimist!”
Bo was not to be consoled or changed. Helen could only sigh and pray that her convictions would be verified.
The first day of July brought an early thunder-storm, just at sunrise. It roared and flared and rolled away, leaving a gorgeous golden cloud pageant in the sky and a fresh, sweetly smelling, glistening green range that delighted Helen's eye.
Birds were twittering in the arbors and bees were humming in the flowers. From the fields down along the brook came a blended song of swamp-blackbird and meadow-lark. A clarion-voiced burro split the air with his coarse and homely bray. The sheep were bleating, and a soft baa of little lambs came sweetly to Helen's ears. She went her usual rounds with more than usual zest and thrill. Everywhere was color, activity, life. The wind swept warm and pine-scented down from the mountain heights, now black and bold, and the great green slopes seemed to call to her.
At that very moment she came suddenly upon Dale, in his shirt-sleeves, dusty and hot, standing motionless, gazing at the distant mountains. Helen's greeting startled him.
“I—I was just looking away yonder,” he said, smiling. She thrilled at the clear, wonderful light of his eyes.
“So was I—a moment ago,” she replied, wistfully. “Do you miss the forest—very much?”
“Nell, I miss nothing. But I'd like to ride with you under the pines once more.”
“We'll go,” she cried.
“When?” he asked, eagerly.
“Oh—soon!” And then with flushed face and downcast eyes she passed on. For long Helen had cherished a fond hope that she might be married in Paradise Park, where she had fallen in love with Dale and had realized herself. But she had kept that hope secret. Dale's eager tone, his flashing eyes, had made her feel that her secret was there in her telltale face.
As she entered the lane leading to the house she encountered one of the new stable-boys driving a pack-mule.
“Jim, whose pack is that?” she asked.
“Ma'am, I dunno, but I heard him tell Roy he reckoned his name was mud,” replied the boy, smiling.
Helen's heart gave a quick throb. That sounded like Las Vegas. She hurried on, and upon entering the courtyard she espied Roy Beeman holding the halter of a beautiful, wild-looking mustang. There was another horse with another man, who was in the act of dismounting on the far side. When he stepped into better view Helen recognized Las Vegas. And he saw her at the same instant.
Helen did not look up again until she was near the porch. She had dreaded this meeting, yet she was so glad that she could have cried aloud.
“Miss Helen, I shore am glad to see you,” he said, standing bareheaded before her, the same young, frank-faced cowboy she had seen first from the train.
“Tom!” she exclaimed, and offered her hands.
He wrung them hard while he looked at her. The swift woman's glance Helen gave in return seemed to drive something dark and doubtful out of her heart. This was the same boy she had known—whom she had liked so well—who had won her sister's love. Helen imagined facing him thus was like awakening from a vague nightmare of doubt. Carmichael's face was clean, fresh, young, with its healthy tan; it wore the old glad smile, cool, easy, and natural; his eyes were like Dale's—penetrating, clear as crystal, without a shadow. What had evil, drink, blood, to do with the real inherent nobility of this splendid specimen of Western hardihood? Wherever he had been, whatever he had done during that long absence, he had returned long separated from that wild and savage character she could now forget. Perhaps there would never again be call for it.
“How's my girl?” he asked, just as naturally as if he had been gone a few days on some errand of his employer's.
“Bo? Oh, she's well—fine. I—I rather think she'll be glad to see you,” replied Helen, warmly.
“An' how's thet big Indian, Dale?” he drawled.
“Well, too—I'm sure.”
“Reckon I got back heah in time to see you-all married?”
“I—I assure you I—no one around here has been married yet,” replied Helen, with a blush.
“Thet shore is fine. Was some worried,” he said, lazily. “I've been chasin' wild hosses over in New Mexico, an' I got after this heah blue roan. He kept me chasin' him fer a spell. I've fetched him back for Bo.”
Helen looked at the mustang Roy was holding, to be instantly delighted. He was a roan almost blue in color, neither large nor heavy, but powerfully built, clean-limbed, and racy, with a long mane and tail, black as coal, and a beautiful head that made Helen love him at once.
“Well, I'm jealous,” declared Helen, archly. “I never did see such a pony.”
“I reckoned you'd never ride any hoss but Ranger,” said Las Vegas.
“No, I never will. But I can be jealous, anyhow, can't I?”
“Shore. An I reckon if you say you're goin' to have him—wal, Bo 'd be funny,” he drawled.
“I reckon she would be funny,” retorted Helen. She was so happy that she imitated his speech. She wanted to hug him. It was too good to be true—the return of this cowboy. He understood her. He had come back with nothing that could alienate her. He had apparently forgotten the terrible role he had accepted and the doom he had meted out to her enemies. That moment was wonderful for Helen in its revelation of the strange significance of the West as embodied in this cowboy. He was great. But he did not know that.
Then the door of the living-room opened, and a sweet, high voice pealed out:
“Roy! Oh, what a mustang! Whose is he?”
“Wal, Bo, if all I hear is so he belongs to you,” replied Roy with a huge grin.
Bo appeared in the door. She stepped out upon the porch. She saw the cowboy. The excited flash of her pretty face vanished as she paled.
“Bo, I shore am glad to see you,” drawled Las Vegas, as he stepped forward, sombrero in hand. Helen could not see any sign of confusion in him. But, indeed, she saw gladness. Then she expected to behold Bo run right into the cowboys's arms. It appeared, however, that she was doomed to disappointment.
“Tom, I'm glad to see you,” she replied.
They shook hands as old friends.
“You're lookin' right fine,” he said.
“Oh, I'm well.... And how have you been these six months?” she queried.
“Reckon I though it was longer,” he drawled. “Wal, I'm pretty tip-top now, but I was laid up with heart trouble for a spell.”
“Heart trouble?” she echoed, dubiously.
“Shore.... I ate too much over heah in New Mexico.”
“It's no news to me—where your heart's located,” laughed Bo. Then she ran off the porch to see the blue mustang. She walked round and round him, clasping her hands in sheer delight.
“Bo, he's a plumb dandy,” said Roy. “Never seen a prettier hoss. He'll run like a streak. An' he's got good eyes. He'll be a pet some day. But I reckon he'll always be spunky.”
“Bo ventured to step closer, and at last got a hand on the mustang, and then another. She smoothed his quivering neck and called softly to him, until he submitted to her hold.
“What's his name?” she asked.
“Blue somethin' or other,” replied Roy.
“Tom, has my new mustang a name?” asked Bo, turning to the cowboy.
“Shore.”
“What then?”
“Wal, I named him Blue-Bo,” answered Las Vegas, with a smile.
“Blue-Boy?”
“Nope. He's named after you. An' I chased him, roped him, broke him all myself.”
“Very well. Blue-Bo he is, then.... And he's a wonderful darling horse. Oh, Nell, just look at him.... Tom, I can't thank you enough.”
“Reckon I don't want any thanks,” drawled the cowboy. “But see heah, Bo, you shore got to live up to conditions before you ride him.”
“What!” exclaimed Bo, who was startled by his slow, cool, meaning tone, of voice.
Helen delighted in looking at Las Vegas then. He had never appeared to better advantage. So cool, careless, and assured! He seemed master of a situation in which his terms must be accepted. Yet he might have been actuated by a cowboy motive beyond the power of Helen to divine.
“Bo Rayner,” drawled Las Vegas, “thet blue mustang will be yours, an' you can ride him—when you're MRS. TOM CARMICHAEL!”
Never had he spoken a softer, more drawling speech, nor gazed at Bo more mildly. Roy seemed thunderstruck. Helen endeavored heroically to restrain her delicious, bursting glee. Bo's wide eyes stared at her lover—darkened—dilated. Suddenly she left the mustang to confront the cowboy where he lounged on the porch steps.
“Do you mean that?” she cried.
“Shore do.”
“Bah! It's only a magnificent bluff,” she retorted. “You're only in fun. It's your—your darned nerve!”
“Why, Bo,” began Las Vegas, reproachfully. “You shore know I'm not the four-flusher kind. Never got away with a bluff in my life! An' I'm jest in daid earnest aboot this heah.”
All the same, signs were not wanting in his mobile face that he was almost unable to restrain his mirth.
Helen realized then that Bo saw through the cowboy—that the ultimatum was only one of his tricks.
“It IS a bluff and I CALL you!” declared Bo, ringingly.
Las Vegas suddenly awoke to consequences. He essayed to speak, but she was so wonderful then, so white and blazing-eyed, that he was stricken mute.
“I'll ride Blue-Bo this afternoon,” deliberately stated the girl.
Las Vegas had wit enough to grasp her meaning, and he seemed about to collapse.
“Very well, you can make me Mrs. Tom Carmichael to-day—this morning—just before dinner.... Go get a preacher to marry us—and make yourself look a more presentable bridegroom—UNLESS IT WAS ONLY A BLUFF!”
Her imperiousness changed as the tremendous portent of her words seemed to make Las Vegas a blank, stone image of a man. With a wild-rose color suffusing her face, she swiftly bent over him, kissed him, and flashed away into the house. Her laugh pealed back, and it thrilled Helen, so deep and strange was it for the wilful sister, so wild and merry and full of joy.
It was then that Roy Beeman recovered from his paralysis, to let out such a roar of mirth as to frighten the horses. Helen was laughing, and crying, too, but laughing mostly. Las Vegas Carmichael was a sight for the gods to behold. Bo's kiss had unclamped what had bound him. The sudden truth, undeniable, insupportable, glorious, made him a madman.
“Bluff—she called me—ride Blue-Bo saf'ternoon!” he raved, reaching wildly for Helen. “Mrs.—Tom—Carmichael—before dinner—preacher—presentable bridegroom!... Aw! I'm drunk again! I—who swore off forever!”
“No, Tom, you're just happy,” said Helen.
Between her and Roy the cowboy was at length persuaded to accept the situation and to see his wonderful opportunity.
“Now—now, Miss Helen—what'd Bo mean by pre—presentable bridegroom?... Presents? Lord, I'm clean busted flat!”
“She meant you must dress up in your best, of course,” replied Helen.
“Where 'n earth will I get a preacher?... Show Down's forty miles.... Can't ride there in time.... Roy, I've gotta have a preacher.... Life or death deal fer me.”
“Wal, old man, if you'll brace up I'll marry you to Bo,” said Roy, with his glad grin.
“Aw!” gasped Las Vegas, as if at the coming of a sudden beautiful hope.
“Tom, I'm a preacher,” replied Roy, now earnestly. “You didn't know thet, but I am. An' I can marry you an' Bo as good as any one, an' tighter 'n most.”
Las Vegas reached for his friend as a drowning man might have reached for solid rock.
“Roy, can you really marry them—with my Bible—and the service of my church?” asked Helen, a happy hope flushing her face.
“Wal, indeed I can. I've married more 'n one couple whose religion wasn't mine.”
“B-b-before—d-d-din-ner!” burst out Las Vegas, like a stuttering idiot.
“I reckon. Come on, now, an' make yourself pre-senttible,” said Roy. “Miss Helen, you tell Bo thet it's all settled.”
He picked up the halter on the blue mustang and turned away toward the corrals. Las Vegas put the bridle of his horse over his arm, and seemed to be following in a trance, with his dazed, rapt face held high.
“Bring Dale,” called Helen, softly after them.
So it came about as naturally as it was wonderful that Bo rode the blue mustang before the afternoon ended.
Las Vegas disobeyed his first orders from Mrs. Tom Carmichael and rode out after her toward the green-rising range. Helen seemed impelled to follow. She did not need to ask Dale the second time. They rode swiftly, but never caught up with Bo and Las Vegas, whose riding resembled their happiness.
Dale read Helen's mind, or else his own thoughts were in harmony with hers, for he always seemed to speak what she was thinking. And as they rode homeward he asked her in his quiet way if they could not spare a few days to visit his old camp.
“And take Bo—and Tom? Oh, of all things I'd like to'” she replied.
“Yes—an' Roy, too,” added Dale, significantly.
“Of course,” said Helen, lightly, as if she had not caught his meaning. But she turned her eyes away, while her heart thumped disgracefully and all her body was aglow. “Will Tom and Bo go?”
“It was Tom who got me to ask you,” replied Dale. “John an' Hal can look after the men while we're gone.”
“Oh—so Tom put it in your head? I guess—maybe—I won't go.”
“It is always in my mind, Nell,” he said, with his slow seriousness. “I'm goin' to work all my life for you. But I'll want to an' need to go back to the woods often.... An' if you ever stoop to marry me—an' make me the richest of men—you'll have to marry me up there where I fell in love with you.”
“Ah! Did Las Vegas Tom Carmichael say that, too?” inquired Helen, softly.
“Nell, do you want to know what Las Vegas said?”
“By all means.”
“He said this—an' not an hour ago. 'Milt, old hoss, let me give you a hunch. I'm a man of family now—an' I've been a devil with the wimmen in my day. I can see through 'em. Don't marry Nell Rayner in or near the house where I killed Beasley. She'd remember. An' don't let her remember thet day. Go off into the woods. Paradise Park! Bo an' me will go with you.”
Helen gave him her hand, while they walked the horses homeward in the long sunset shadows. In the fullness of that happy hour she had time for a grateful wonder at the keen penetration of the cowboy Carmichael. Dale had saved her life, but it was Las Vegas who had saved her happiness.
Not many days later, when again the afternoon shadows were slanting low, Helen rode out upon the promontory where the dim trail zigzagged far above Paradise Park.
Roy was singing as he drove the pack-burros down the slope; Bo and Las Vegas were trying to ride the trail two abreast, so they could hold hands; Dale had dismounted to stand beside Helen's horse, as she gazed down the shaggy black slopes to the beautiful wild park with its gray meadows and shining ribbons of brooks.
It was July, and there were no golden-red glorious flames and blazes of color such as lingered in Helen's memory. Black spruce slopes and green pines and white streaks of aspens and lacy waterfall of foam and dark outcroppings of rock—these colors and forms greeted her gaze with all the old enchantment. Wildness, beauty, and loneliness were there, the same as ever, immutable, like the spirit of those heights.
Helen would fain have lingered longer, but the others called, and Ranger impatiently snorted his sense of the grass and water far below. And she knew that when she climbed there again to the wide outlook she would be another woman.
“Nell, come on,” said Dale, as he led on. “It's better to look up.”
The sun had just sunk behind the ragged fringe of mountain-rim when those three strong and efficient men of the open had pitched camp and had prepared a bountiful supper. Then Roy Beeman took out the little worn Bible which Helen had given him to use when he married Bo, and as he opened it a light changed his dark face.
“Come, Helen an' Dale,” he said.
They arose to stand before him. And he married them there under the great, stately pines, with the fragrant blue smoke curling upward, and the wind singing through the branches, while the waterfall murmured its low, soft, dreamy music, and from the dark slope came the wild, lonely cry of a wolf, full of the hunger for life and a mate.
“Let us pray,” said Roy, as he closed the Bible, and knelt with them.
“There is only one God, an' Him I beseech in my humble office for the woman an' man I have just wedded in holy bonds. Bless them an' watch them an' keep them through all the comin' years. Bless the sons of this strong man of the woods an' make them like him, with love an' understandin' of the source from which life comes. Bless the daughters of this woman an' send with them more of her love an' soul, which must be the softenin' an' the salvation of the hard West. O Lord, blaze the dim, dark trail for them through the unknown forest of life! O Lord, lead the way across the naked range of the future no mortal knows! We ask in Thy name! Amen.”
When the preacher stood up again and raised the couple from their kneeling posture, it seemed that a grave and solemn personage had left him. This young man was again the dark-faced, clear-eyed Roy, droll and dry, with the enigmatic smile on his lips.
“Mrs. Dale,” he said, taking her hands, “I wish you joy.... An' now, after this here, my crownin' service in your behalf—I reckon I'll claim a reward.”
Then he kissed her. Bo came next with her warm and loving felicitations, and the cowboy, with characteristic action, also made at Helen.
“Nell, shore it's the only chance I'll ever have to kiss you,” he drawled. “Because when this heah big Indian once finds out what kissin' is—!”
Las Vegas then proved how swift and hearty he could be upon occasions. All this left Helen red and confused and unutterably happy. She appreciated Dale's state. His eyes reflected the precious treasure which manifestly he saw, but realization of ownership had not yet become demonstrable.
Then with gay speech and happy laugh and silent look these five partook of the supper. When it was finished Roy made known his intention to leave. They all protested and coaxed, but to no avail. He only laughed and went on saddling his horse.
“Roy, please stay,” implored Helen. “The day's almost ended. You're tired.”
“Nope. I'll never be no third party when there's only two.”
“But there are four of us.”
“Didn't I just make you an' Dale one?... An', Mrs. Dale, you forget I've been married more 'n once.”
Helen found herself confronted by an unanswerable side of the argument. Las Vegas rolled on the grass in his mirth. Dale looked strange.
“Roy, then that's why you're so nice,” said Bo, with a little devil in her eyes. “Do you know I had my mind made up if Tom hadn't come around I was going to make up to you, Roy.... I sure was. What number wife would I have been?”
It always took Bo to turn the tables on anybody. Roy looked mightily embarrassed. And the laugh was on him. He did not face them again until he had mounted.
“Las Vegas, I've done my best for you—hitched you to thet blue-eyed girl the best I know how,” he declared. “But I shore ain't guaranteein' nothin'. You'd better build a corral for her.”
“Why, Roy, you shore don't savvy the way to break these wild ones,” drawled Las Vegas. “Bo will be eatin' out of my hand in about a week.”
Bo's blue eyes expressed an eloquent doubt as to this extraordinary claim.
“Good-by, friends,” said Roy, and rode away to disappear in the spruces.
Thereupon Bo and Las Vegas forgot Roy, and Dale and Helen, the camp chores to be done, and everything else except themselves. Helen's first wifely duty was to insist that she should and could and would help her husband with the work of cleaning up after the sumptuous supper. Before they had finished a sound startled them. It came from Roy, evidently high on the darkening slope, and was a long, mellow pealing halloo, that rang on the cool air, burst the dreamy silence, and rapped across from slope to slope and cliff to cliff, to lose its power and die away hauntingly in the distant recesses.
Dale shook his head as if he did not care to attempt a reply to that beautiful call. Silence once again enfolded the park, and twilight seemed to be born of the air, drifting downward.
“Nell, do you miss anythin'?” asked Dale.
“No. Nothing in all the world,” she murmured. “I am happier than I ever dared pray to be.”
“I don't mean people or things. I mean my pets.”
“Ah! I had forgotten.... Milt, where are they?”
“Gone back to the wild,” he said. “They had to live in my absence. An' I've been away long.”
Just then the brooding silence, with its soft murmur of falling water and faint sigh of wind in the pines, was broken by a piercing scream, high, quivering, like that of a woman in exquisite agony.
“That's Tom!” exclaimed Dale.
“Oh—I was so—so frightened!” whispered Helen.
Bo came running, with Las Vegas at her heels.
“Milt, that was your tame cougar,” cried Bo, excitedly. “Oh, I'll never forget him! I'll hear those cries in my dreams!”
“Yes, it was Tom,” said Dale, thoughtfully. “But I never heard him cry just like that.”
“Oh, call him in!”
Dale whistled and called, but Tom did not come. Then the hunter stalked off in the gloom to call from different points under the slope. After a while he returned without the cougar. And at that moment, from far up the dark ravine, drifted down the same wild cry, only changed by distance, strange and tragic in its meaning.
“He scented us. He remembers. But he'll never come back,” said Dale.
Helen felt stirred anew with the convictions of Dale's deep knowledge of life and nature. And her imagination seemed to have wings. How full and perfect her trust, her happiness in the realization that her love and her future, her children, and perhaps grandchildren, would come under the guidance of such a man! Only a little had she begun to comprehend the secrets of good and ill in their relation to the laws of nature. Ages before men had lived on the earth there had been the creatures of the wilderness, and the holes of the rocks, and the nests of the trees, and rain, frost, heat, dew, sunlight and night, storm and calm, the honey of the wildflower and the instinct of the bee—all the beautiful and multiple forms of life with their inscrutable design. To know something of them and to love them was to be close to the kingdom of earth—perhaps to the greater kingdom of heaven. For whatever breathed and moved was a part of that creation. The coo of the dove, the lichen on the mossy rock, the mourn of a hunting wolf, and the murmur of the waterfall, the ever-green and growing tips of the spruces, and the thunderbolts along the battlements of the heights—these one and all must be actuated by the great spirit—that incalculable thing in the universe which had produced man and soul.
And there in the starlight, under the wide-gnarled pines, sighing low with the wind, Helen sat with Dale on the old stone that an avalanche of a million years past had flung from the rampart above to serve as camp-table and bench for lovers in the wilderness; the sweet scent of spruce mingled with the fragrance of wood-smoke blown in their faces. How white the stars, and calm and true! How they blazed their single task! A coyote yelped off on the south slope, dark now as midnight. A bit of weathered rock rolled and tapped from shelf to shelf. And the wind moaned. Helen felt all the sadness and mystery and nobility of this lonely fastness, and full on her heart rested the supreme consciousness that all would some day be well with the troubled world beyond.
“Nell, I'll homestead this park,” said Dale. “Then it'll always be ours.”
“Homestead! What's that?” murmured Helen, dreamily. The word sounded sweet.
“The government will give land to men who locate an' build,” replied Dale. “We'll run up a log cabin.”
“And come here often.... Paradise Park!” whispered Helen.
Dale's first kisses were on her lips then, hard and cool and clean, like the life of the man, singularly exalting to her, completing her woman's strange and unutterable joy of the hour, and rendering her mute.
Bo's melodious laugh, and her voice with its old mockery of torment, drifted softly on the night breeze. And the cowboy's “Aw, Bo,” drawling his reproach and longing, was all that the tranquil, waiting silence needed.
Paradise Park was living again one of its romances. Love was no stranger to that lonely fastness. Helen heard in the whisper of the wind through the pine the old-earth story, beautiful, ever new, and yet eternal. She thrilled to her depths. The spar-pointed spruces stood up black and clear against the noble stars. All that vast solitude breathed and waited, charged full with its secret, ready to reveal itself to her tremulous soul.