THE MAN OF THE FOREST. Zane Grey
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It certainly was not lost upon Bo.
"My uncle once said in a letter that he never had enough men to run his ranch," replied Helen, smiling.
"Shore I'll go. I reckon I'd jest naturally drift that way—now."
He seemed so laconic, so easy, so nice, that he could not have been taken seriously, yet Helen's quick perceptions registered a daring, a something that was both sudden and inevitable in him. His last word was as clear as the soft look he fixed upon Bo.
Helen had a mischievous trait, which, subdue it as she would, occasionally cropped out; and Bo, who once in her wilful life had been rendered speechless, offered such a temptation.
"Maybe my little sister will put in a good word for you—to Uncle Al," said Helen. Just then the train jerked, and started slowly. The cowboy took two long strides beside the car, his heated boyish face almost on a level with the window, his eyes, now shy and a little wistful, yet bold, too, fixed upon Bo.
"Good-by—Sweetheart!" he called.
He halted—was lost to view.
"Well!" ejaculated Helen, contritely, half sorry, half amused. "What a sudden young gentleman!"
Bo had blushed beautifully.
"Nell, wasn't he glorious!" she burst out, with eyes shining.
"I'd hardly call him that, but he was—nice," replied Helen, much relieved that Bo had apparently not taken offense at her.
It appeared plain that Bo resisted a frantic desire to look out of the window and to wave her hand. But she only peeped out, manifestly to her disappointment.
"Do you think he—he'll come to Uncle Al's?" asked Bo.
"Child, he was only in fun."
"Nell, I'll bet you he comes. Oh, it'd be great! I'm going to love cowboys. They don't look like that Harve Riggs who ran after you so."
Helen sighed, partly because of the reminder of her odious suitor, and partly because Bo's future already called mysteriously to the child. Helen had to be at once a mother and a protector to a girl of intense and wilful spirit.
One of the trainmen directed the girls' attention to a green, sloping mountain rising to a bold, blunt bluff of bare rock; and, calling it Starvation Peak, he told a story of how Indians had once driven Spaniards up there and starved them. Bo was intensely interested, and thereafter she watched more keenly than ever, and always had a question for a passing trainman. The adobe houses of the Mexicans pleased her, and, then the train got out into Indian country, where pueblos appeared near the track and Indians with their bright colors and shaggy wild mustangs—then she was enraptured.
"But these Indians are peaceful!" she exclaimed once, regretfully.
"Gracious, child! You don't want to see hostile Indians, do you?" queried Helen.
"I do, you bet," was the frank rejoinder.
"Well, I'LL bet that I'll be sorry I didn't leave you with mother."
"Nell—you never will!"
They reached Albuquerque about noon, and this important station, where they had to change trains, had been the first dreaded anticipation of the journey. It certainly was a busy place—full of jabbering Mexicans, stalking, red-faced, wicked-looking cowboys, lolling Indians. In the confusion Helen would have been hard put to it to preserve calmness, with Bo to watch, and all that baggage to carry, and the other train to find; but the kindly brakeman who had been attentive to them now helped them off the train into the other—a service for which Helen was very grateful.
"Albuquerque's a hard place," confided the trainman. "Better stay in the car—and don't hang out the windows.... Good luck to you!"
Only a few passengers were in the car and they were Mexicans at the forward end. This branch train consisted of one passenger-coach, with a baggage-car, attached to a string of freight-cars. Helen told herself, somewhat grimly, that soon she would know surely whether or not her suspicions of Harve Riggs had warrant. If he was going on to Magdalena on that day he must go in this coach. Presently Bo, who was not obeying admonitions, drew her head out of the window. Her eyes were wide in amaze, her mouth open.
"Nell! I saw that man Riggs!" she whispered. "He's going to get on this train."
"Bo, I saw him yesterday," replied Helen, soberly.
"He's followed you—the—the—"
"Now, Bo, don't get excited," remonstrated Helen. "We've left home now. We've got to take things as they come. Never mind if Riggs has followed me. I'll settle him."
"Oh! Then you won't speak—have anything to do with him?"
"I won't if I can help it."
Other passengers boarded the train, dusty, uncouth, ragged men, and some hard-featured, poorly clad women, marked by toil, and several more Mexicans. With bustle and loud talk they found their several seats.
Then Helen saw Harve Riggs enter, burdened with much luggage. He was a man of about medium height, of dark, flashy appearance, cultivating long black mustache and hair. His apparel was striking, as it consisted of black frock-coat, black trousers stuffed in high, fancy-topped boots, an embroidered vest, and flowing tie, and a black sombrero. His belt and gun were prominent. It was significant that he excited comment among the other passengers.
When he had deposited his pieces of baggage he seemed to square himself, and, turning abruptly, approached the seat occupied by the girls. When he reached it he sat down upon the arm of the one opposite, took off his sombrero, and deliberately looked at Helen. His eyes were light, glinting, with hard, restless quiver, and his mouth was coarse and arrogant. Helen had never seen him detached from her home surroundings, and now the difference struck cold upon her heart.
"Hello, Nell!" he said. "Surprised to see me?"
"No," she replied, coldly.
"I'll gamble you are."
"Harve Riggs, I told you the day before I left home that nothing you could do or say mattered to me."
"Reckon that ain't so, Nell. Any woman I keep track of has reason to think. An' you know it."
"Then you followed me—out here?" demanded Helen, and her voice, despite her control, quivered with anger.
"I sure did," he replied, and there was as much thought of himself in the act as there was of her.
"Why? Why? It's useless—hopeless."
"I swore I'd have you, or nobody else would," he replied, and here, in the passion of his voice there sounded egotism rather than hunger for a woman's love. "But I reckon I'd have struck West anyhow, sooner or later."
"You're not going to—all the way—to Pine?" faltered Helen, momentarily weakening.
"Nell, I'll camp on your trail from now on," he declared.
Then Bo sat bolt-upright, with pale face and flashing eyes.
"Harve Riggs, you leave Nell alone," she burst out, in ringing, brave young voice. "I'll tell you what—I'll bet—if you follow her and nag her any more, my uncle Al or some cowboy will run you out of the country."
"Hello, Pepper!" replied Riggs, coolly. "I see your manners haven't improved an' you're still wild about cowboys."
"People don't have good manners with—with—"
"Bo, hush!" admonished Helen. It was difficult to reprove Bo just then, for that young lady had not the slightest fear of Riggs. Indeed, she looked as if she could slap his face. And Helen realized that however her intelligence had grasped the possibilities of leaving home for a wild country, and whatever her determination to be brave, the actual beginning of self-reliance had left her spirit weak. She would rise out of that. But just now this flashing-eyed little sister seemed a protector. Bo would readily adapt herself to the West, Helen thought, because she was so young, primitive, elemental.
Whereupon Bo turned her back to Riggs