The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (fb2 epub reader .txt) 📕

CHAPTER XVIII

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