Milt Dale quietly sat up to gaze, with thoughtful eyes, into the gloom.
He was thirty years old. As a boy of fourteen he had run off from his school and home in Iowa and, joining a wagon-train of pioneers, he was one of the first to see log cabins built on the slopes of the White Mountains. But he had not taken kindly to farming or sheep-raising or monotonous home toil, and for twelve years he had lived in the forest, with only infrequent visits to Pine and Show Down and Snowdrop. This wandering forest life of his did not indicate that he did not care for the villagers, for he did care, and he was welcome everywhere, but that he loved wild life and solitude and beauty with the primitive instinctive force of a savage.
And on this night he had stumbled upon a dark plot against the only one of all the honest white people in that region whom he could not call a friend.
"That man Beasley!" he soliloquized. "Beasley—in cahoots with Snake Anson!... Well, he was right. Al Auchincloss is on his last legs. Poor old man! When I tell him he'll never believe ME, that's sure!"
Discovery of the plot meant to Dale that he must hurry down to Pine.
"A girl—Helen Rayner—twenty years old," he mused. "Beasley wants her made off with.... That means—worse than killed!"
Dale accepted facts of life with that equanimity and fatality acquired by one long versed in the cruel annals of forest lore. Bad men worked their evil just as savage wolves relayed a deer. He had shot wolves for that trick. With men, good or bad, he had not clashed. Old women and children appealed to him, but he had never had any interest in girls. The image, then, of this Helen Rayner came strangely to Dale; and he suddenly realized that he had meant somehow to circumvent Beasley, not to befriend old Al Auchincloss, but for the sake of the girl. Probably she was already on her way West, alone, eager, hopeful of a future home. How little people guessed what awaited them at a journey's end! Many trails ended abruptly in the forest—and only trained woodsmen could read the tragedy.
"Strange how I cut across country to-day from Spruce Swamp," reflected Dale. Circumstances, movements, usually were not strange to him. His methods and habits were seldom changed by chance. The matter, then, of his turning off a course out of his way for no apparent reason, and of his having overheard a plot singularly involving a young girl, was indeed an adventure to provoke thought. It provoked more, for Dale grew conscious of an unfamiliar smoldering heat along his veins. He who had little to do with the strife of men, and nothing to do with anger, felt his blood grow hot at the cowardly trap laid for an innocent girl.
"Old Al won't listen to me," pondered Dale. "An' even if he did, he wouldn't believe me. Maybe nobody will.... All the same, Snake Anson won't get that girl."
With these last words Dale satisfied himself of his own position, and his pondering ceased. Taking his rifle, he descended from the loft and peered out of the door. The night had grown darker, windier, cooler; broken clouds were scudding across the sky; only a few stars showed; fine rain was blowing from the northwest; and the forest seemed full of a low, dull roar.
"Reckon I'd better hang up here," he said, and turned to the fire. The coals were red now. From the depths of his hunting-coat he procured a little bag of salt and some strips of dried meat. These strips he laid for a moment on the hot embers, until they began to sizzle and curl; then with a sharpened stick he removed them and ate like a hungry hunter grateful for little.
He sat on a block of wood with his palms spread to the dying warmth of the fire and his eyes fixed upon the changing, glowing, golden embers. Outside, the wind continued to rise and the moan of the forest increased to a roar. Dale felt the comfortable warmth stealing over him, drowsily lulling; and he heard the storm-wind in the trees, now like a waterfall, and anon like a retreating army, and again low and sad; and he saw pictures in the glowing embers, strange as dreams.
Presently he rose and, climbing to the loft, he stretched himself out, and soon fell asleep.
When the gray dawn broke he was on his way, 'cross-country, to the village of Pine.
During the night the wind had shifted and the rain had ceased. A suspicion of frost shone on the grass in open places. All was gray—the parks, the glades—and deeper, darker gray marked the aisles of the forest. Shadows lurked under the trees and the silence seemed consistent with spectral forms. Then the east kindled, the gray lightened, the dreaming woodland awoke to the far-reaching rays of a bursting red sun.
This was always the happiest moment of Dale's lonely days, as sunset was his saddest. He responded, and there was something in his blood that answered the whistle of a stag from a near-by ridge. His strides were long, noiseless, and they left dark trace where his feet brushed the dew-laden grass.
Dale pursued a zigzag course over the ridges to escape the hardest climbing, but the "senacas"—those parklike meadows so named by Mexican sheep-herders—were as round and level as if they had been made by man in beautiful contrast to the dark-green, rough, and rugged ridges. Both open senaca and dense wooded ridge showed to his quick eye an abundance of game. The cracking of twigs and disappearing flash of gray among the spruces, a round black lumbering object, a twittering in the brush, and stealthy steps, were all easy signs for Dale to read. Once, as he noiselessly emerged into a little glade, he espied a red fox stalking some quarry, which, as he advanced, proved to be a flock of partridges. They whirred up, brushing the branches, and the fox trotted away. In every senaca Dale encountered wild turkeys feeding on the seeds of the high grass.
It had always been his custom, on his visits to Pine, to kill and pack fresh meat down to several old friends, who were glad to give him lodging. And, hurried though he was now, he did not intend to make an exception of this trip.
At length he got down into the pine belt, where the great, gnarled, yellow trees soared aloft, stately, and aloof from one another, and the ground was a brown, odorous, springy mat of pine-needles, level as a floor. Squirrels watched him from all around, scurrying away at his near approach—tiny, brown, light-striped squirrels, and larger ones, russet-colored, and the splendid dark-grays with their white bushy tails and plumed ears.
This belt of pine ended abruptly upon wide, gray, rolling, open land, almost like a prairie, with foot-hills lifting near and far, and the red-gold blaze of aspen thickets catching the morning sun. Here Dale flushed a flock of wild turkeys, upward of forty in number, and their subdued color of gray flecked with white, and graceful, sleek build, showed them to be hens. There was not a gobbler in the flock. They began to run pell-mell out into the grass, until only their heads appeared bobbing along, and finally disappeared. Dale caught a glimpse of skulking coyotes that evidently had been stalking the turkeys, and as they saw him and darted into the timber he took a quick shot at the hindmost. His bullet struck low, as he had meant it to, but too low, and the coyote got only a dusting of earth and pine-needles thrown up into his face. This frightened him so that he leaped aside blindly to butt into a tree, rolled over, gained his feet, and then the cover of the forest. Dale was amused at this. His hand was against all the predatory beasts of the forest, though he had learned that lion and bear and wolf and fox were all as necessary to the great scheme of nature as were the gentle, beautiful wild creatures upon which they preyed. But some he loved better than others, and so he deplored the inexplicable cruelty.
He crossed the wide, grassy plain and struck another gradual descent where aspens and pines crowded a shallow ravine and warm, sun-lighted glades bordered along a sparkling brook. Here he heard a turkey gobble, and that was a signal for him to change his course and make a crouching, silent detour around a clump of aspens. In a sunny patch of grass a dozen or more big gobblers stood, all suspiciously facing in his direction, heads erect, with that wild aspect peculiar to their species. Old wild turkey gobblers were the most difficult game to stalk. Dale shot two of them. The others began to run like ostriches, thudding over the ground, spreading their wings, and with that running start launched their heavy bodies into whirring flight. They flew low, at about the height of a man from the grass, and vanished in the woods.
Dale threw the two turkeys over his shoulder and went on his way. Soon he came to a break in the forest level, from which he gazed down a league-long slope of pine and cedar, out upon the bare, glistening desert, stretching away, endlessly rolling out to the dim, dark horizon line.
The little hamlet of Pine lay on the last level of sparsely timbered forest. A road, running parallel with a dark-watered, swift-flowing stream, divided the cluster of log cabins from which columns of blue smoke drifted lazily aloft. Fields of corn and fields of oats, yellow in the sunlight, surrounded the village; and green pastures, dotted with horses and cattle, reached away to the denser woodland. This site appeared to be a natural clearing, for there was no evidence of cut timber. The scene was rather too wild to be pastoral, but it was serene, tranquil, giving the impression of a remote community, prosperous and happy, drifting along the peaceful tenor of sequestered lives.
Dale halted before a neat little log cabin and a little patch of garden bordered with sunflowers. His call was answered by an old woman, gray and bent, but remarkably spry, who appeared at the door.
"Why, land's sakes, if it ain't Milt Dale!" she exclaimed, in welcome.
"Reckon it's me, Mrs. Cass," he replied. "An' I've brought you a turkey."
"Milt, you're that good boy who never forgits old Widow Cass.... What a gobbler! First one I've seen this fall. My man Tom used to fetch home gobblers like that.... An' mebbe he'll come home again sometime."
Her husband, Tom Cass, had gone into the forest years before and had never returned. But the old woman always looked for him and never gave up hope.
"Men have been lost in the forest an' yet come back," replied Dale, as he had said to her many a time.
"Come right in. You air hungry, I know. Now, son, when last did you eat a fresh egg or a flapjack?"
"You should remember," he answered, laughing, as he followed her into a small, clean kitchen.
"Laws-a'-me! An' thet's months ago," she replied, shaking her gray head. "Milt, you should give up that wild life—an' marry—an' have a home."
"You always tell me that."
"Yes, an' I'll see you do it yet.... Now you set there, an' pretty soon I'll give you thet to eat which 'll make your mouth water."
"What's the news, Auntie?" he asked.
"Nary news in this dead place. Why, nobody's been to Snowdrop in two weeks!... Sary Jones died, poor old soul—she's better off—an' one of my cows run away. Milt, she's wild when she gits loose in the woods. An' you'll have to track her, 'cause nobody else can. An' John Dakker's heifer was killed by a lion, an' Lem Harden's fast hoss—you know his favorite—was stole by hoss-thieves. Lem is jest crazy. An' that reminds me, Milt, where's your big ranger, thet you'd never sell or lend?"
"My horses are up in the woods, Auntie; safe, I reckon, from horse-thieves."
"Well, that's a blessin'. We've had some stock stole this summer, Milt, an' no mistake."
Thus, while preparing a meal for Dale, the old woman went on recounting all that had happened in the little village since his last visit. Dale enjoyed her gossip and quaint philosophy, and it was exceedingly good to sit at her table. In his opinion, nowhere else could there have been such butter and cream, such ham and eggs. Besides, she always had apple pie, it seemed, at any time he happened in; and apple pie was one of Dale's few regrets while up in the lonely forest.
"How's old Al Auchincloss?" presently inquired Dale.
"Poorly—poorly," sighed Mrs. Cass. "But he tramps an' rides around same as ever. Al's not long for this world.... An', Milt, that reminds me—there's the biggest news you ever heard."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dale, to encourage the excited old woman.
"Al has sent back to Saint Joe for his niece, Helen Rayner. She's to inherit all his property. We've heard much of her—a purty lass, they say.... Now, Milt Dale, here's your chance. Stay out of the woods an' go to work.... You can marry that girl!"
"No chance for me, Auntie," replied Dale, smiling.
The old woman snorted. "Much you know! Any girl would have you, Milt Dale, if you'd only throw a kerchief."
"Me!... An' why, Auntie?" he queried, half amused, half thoughtful. When he got back to civilization he always had to adjust his thoughts to the ideas of people.
"Why? I declare, Milt, you live so in the woods you're like a boy of ten—an' then sometimes as old as the hills.... There's no young man to compare with you, hereabouts. An' this girl—she'll have all the spunk of the Auchinclosses."
"Then maybe she'd not be such a catch, after all," replied Dale.
"Wal, you've no cause to love them, that's sure. But, Milt, the Auchincloss women are always good wives."
"Dear Auntie, you're dreamin'," said Dale, soberly. "I want no wife. I'm happy in the woods."
"Air you goin' to live like an Injun all your days, Milt Dale?" she queried, sharply.
"I hope so."
"You ought to be ashamed. But some lass will change you, boy, an' mebbe it'll be this Helen Rayner. I hope an' pray so to thet."
"Auntie, supposin' she did change me. She'd never change old Al. He hates me, you know."
"Wal, I ain't so sure, Milt. I met Al the other day. He inquired for you, an' said you was wild, but he reckoned men like you was good for pioneer settlements. Lord knows the good turns you've done this village! Milt, old Al doesn't approve of your wild life, but he never had no hard feelin's till thet tame lion of yours killed so many of his sheep."
"Auntie, I don't believe Tom ever killed Al's sheep," declared Dale, positively.
"Wal, Al thinks so, an' many other people," replied Mrs. Cass, shaking her gray head doubtfully. "You never swore he didn't. An' there was them two sheep-herders who did swear they seen him."
"They only saw a cougar. An' they were so scared they ran."
"Who wouldn't? Thet big beast is enough to scare any one. For land's sakes, don't ever fetch him down here again! I'll never forgit the time you did. All the folks an' children an' hosses in Pine broke an' run thet day."
"Yes; but Tom wasn't to blame. Auntie, he's the tamest of my pets. Didn't he try to put his head on your lap an' lick your hand?"
"Wal, Milt, I ain't gainsayin' your cougar pet didn't act better 'n a lot of people I know. Fer he did. But the looks of him an' what's been said was enough for me."
"An' what's all that, Auntie?"
"They say he's wild when out of your sight. An' thet he'd trail an' kill anythin' you put him after."
"I trained him to be just that way."
"Wal, leave Tom to home up in the woods—when you visit us."
Dale finished his hearty meal, and listened awhile longer to the old woman's talk; then, taking his rifle and the other turkey, he bade her good-by. She followed him out.
"Now, Milt, you'll come soon again, won't you—jest to see Al's niece—who'll be here in a week?"
"I reckon I'll drop in some day.... Auntie, have you seen my friends, the Mormon boys?"
"No, I 'ain't seen them an' don't want to," she retorted. "Milt Dale, if any one ever corrals you it'll be Mormons."
"Don't worry, Auntie. I like those boys. They often see me up in the woods an' ask me to help them track a hoss or help kill some fresh meat."
"They're workin' for Beasley now."
"Is that so?" rejoined Dale, with a sudden start. "An' what doin'?"
"Beasley is gettin' so rich he's buildin' a fence, an' didn't have enough help, so I hear."
"Beasley gettin' rich!" repeated Dale, thoughtfully. "More sheep an' horses an' cattle than ever, I reckon?"
"Laws-a'-me! Why, Milt, Beasley 'ain't any idea what he owns. Yes, he's the biggest man in these parts, since poor old Al's took to failin'. I reckon Al's health ain't none improved by Beasley's success. They've bad some bitter quarrels lately—so I hear. Al ain't what he was."
Dale bade good-by again to his old friend and strode away, thoughtful and serious. Beasley would not only be difficult to circumvent, but he would be dangerous to oppose. There did not appear much doubt of his driving his way rough-shod to the dominance of affairs there in Pine. Dale, passing down the road, began to meet acquaintances who had hearty welcome for his presence and interest in his doings, so that his pondering was interrupted for the time being. He carried the turkey to another old friend, and when he left her house he went on to the village store. This was a large log cabin, roughly covered with clapboards, with a wide plank platform in front and a hitching-rail in the road. Several horses were standing there, and a group of lazy, shirt-sleeved loungers.
"I'll be doggoned if it ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed one.
"Howdy, Milt, old buckskin! Right down glad to see you," greeted another.
"Hello, Dale! You air shore good for sore eyes," drawled still another.
After a long period of absence Dale always experienced a singular warmth of feeling when he met these acquaintances. It faded quickly when he got back to the intimacy of his woodland, and that was because the people of Pine, with few exceptions—though they liked him and greatly admired his outdoor wisdom—regarded him as a sort of nonentity. Because he loved the wild and preferred it to village and range life, they had classed him as not one of them. Some believed him lazy; others believed him shiftless; others thought him an Indian in mind and habits; and there were many who called him slow-witted. Then there was another side to their regard for him, which always afforded him good-natured amusement. Two of this group asked him to bring in some turkey or venison; another wanted to hunt with him. Lem Harden came out of the store and appealed to Dale to recover his stolen horse. Lem's brother wanted a wild-running mare tracked and brought home. Jesse Lyons wanted a colt broken, and broken with patience, not violence, as was the method of the hard-riding boys at Pine. So one and all they besieged Dale with their selfish needs, all unconscious of the flattering nature of these overtures. And on the moment there happened by two women whose remarks, as they entered the store, bore strong testimony to Dale's personality.
"If there ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed the older of the two. "How lucky! My cow's sick, an' the men are no good doctorin'. I'll jest ask Milt over."
"No one like Milt!" responded the other woman, heartily.
"Good day there—you Milt Dale!" called the first speaker. "When you git away from these lazy men come over."
Dale never refused a service, and that was why his infrequent visits to Pine were wont to be prolonged beyond his own pleasure.
Presently Beasley strode down the street, and when about to enter the store he espied Dale.
"Hullo there, Milt!" he called, cordially, as he came forward with extended hand. His greeting was sincere, but the lightning glance he shot over Dale was not born of his pleasure. Seen in daylight, Beasley was a big, bold, bluff man, with strong, dark features. His aggressive presence suggested that he was a good friend and a bad enemy.
Dale shook hands with him.
"How are you, Beasley?"
"Ain't complainin', Milt, though I got more work than I can rustle. Reckon you wouldn't take a job bossin' my sheep-herders?"
"Reckon I wouldn't," replied Dale. "Thanks all the same."
"What's goin' on up in the woods?"
"Plenty of turkey an' deer. Lots of bear, too. The Indians have worked back on the south side early this fall. But I reckon winter will come late an' be mild."
"Good! An' where 're you headin' from?"
"'Cross-country from my camp," replied Dale, rather evasively.
"Your camp! Nobody ever found that yet," declared Beasley, gruffly.
"It's up there," said Dale.
"Reckon you've got that cougar chained in your cabin door?" queried Beasley, and there was a barely distinguishable shudder of his muscular frame. Also the pupils dilated in his hard brown eyes.
"Tom ain't chained. An' I haven't no cabin, Beasley."
"You mean to tell me that big brute stays in your camp without bein' hog-tied or corralled!" demanded Beasley.
"Sure he does."
"Beats me! But, then, I'm queer on cougars. Have had many a cougar trail me at night. Ain't sayin' I was scared. But I don't care for that brand of varmint.... Milt, you goin' to stay down awhile?"
"Yes, I'll hang around some."
"Come over to the ranch. Glad to see you any time. Some old huntin' pards of yours are workin' for me."
"Thanks, Beasley. I reckon I'll come over."
Beasley turned away and took a step, and then, as if with an after-thought, he wheeled again.
"Suppose you've heard about old Al Auchincloss bein' near petered out?" queried Beasley. A strong, ponderous cast of thought seemed to emanate from his features. Dale divined that Beasley's next step would be to further his advancement by some word or hint.
"Widow Cass was tellin' me all the news. Too bad about old Al," replied Dale.
"Sure is. He's done for. An' I'm sorry—though Al's never been square—"
"Beasley," interrupted Dale, quickly, "you can't say that to me. Al Auchincloss always was the whitest an' squarest man in this sheep country."
Beasley gave Dale a fleeting, dark glance.
"Dale, what you think ain't goin' to influence feelin' on this range," returned Beasley, deliberately. "You live in the woods an'—"
"Reckon livin' in the woods I might think—an' know a whole lot," interposed Dale, just as deliberately. The group of men exchanged surprised glances. This was Milt Dale in different aspect. And Beasley did not conceal a puzzled surprise.
"About what—now?" he asked, bluntly.
"Why, about what's goin' on in Pine," replied Dale.
Some of the men laughed.
"Shore lots goin' on—an' no mistake," put in Lem Harden.
Probably the keen Beasley had never before considered Milt Dale as a responsible person; certainly never one in any way to cross his trail. But on the instant, perhaps, some instinct was born, or he divined an antagonism in Dale that was both surprising and perplexing.
"Dale, I've differences with Al Auchincloss—have had them for years," said Beasley. "Much of what he owns is mine. An' it's goin' to come to me. Now I reckon people will be takin' sides—some for me an' some for Al. Most are for me.... Where do you stand? Al Auchincloss never had no use for you, an' besides he's a dyin' man. Are you goin' on his side?"
"Yes, I reckon I am."
"Wal, I'm glad you've declared yourself," rejoined Beasley, shortly, and he strode away with the ponderous gait of a man who would brush any obstacle from his path.
"Milt, thet's bad—makin' Beasley sore at you," said Lem Harden. "He's on the way to boss this outfit."
"He's sure goin' to step into Al's boots," said another.
"Thet was white of Milt to stick up fer poor old Al," declared Lem's brother.
Dale broke away from them and wended a thoughtful way down the road. The burden of what he knew about Beasley weighed less heavily upon him, and the close-lipped course he had decided upon appeared wisest. He needed to think before undertaking to call upon old Al Auchincloss; and to that end he sought an hour's seclusion under the pines.
Here, there was no kindly brakeman to help the sisters with their luggage. Helen bade Bo take her share; thus burdened, they made an awkward and laborious shift to get off the train.
Upon the platform of the car a strong hand seized Helen's heavy bag, with which she was straining, and a loud voice called out:
"Girls, we're here—sure out in the wild an' woolly West!"
The speaker was Riggs, and he had possessed himself of part of her baggage with action and speech meant more to impress the curious crowd than to be really kind. In the excitement of arriving Helen had forgotten him. The manner of sudden reminder—the insincerity of it—made her temper flash. She almost fell, encumbered as she was, in her hurry to descend the steps. She saw the tall hunter in gray step forward close to her as she reached for the bag Riggs held.
"Mr. Riggs, I'll carry my bag," she said.
"Let me lug this. You help Bo with hers," he replied, familiarly.
"But I want it," she rejoined, quietly, with sharp determination. No little force was needed to pull the bag away from Riggs.
"See here, Helen, you ain't goin' any farther with that joke, are you?" he queried, deprecatingly, and he still spoke quite loud.
"It's no joke to me," replied Helen. "I told you I didn't want your attention."
"Sure. But that was temper. I'm your friend—from your home town. An' I ain't goin' to let a quarrel keep me from lookin' after you till you're safe at your uncle's."
Helen turned her back upon him. The tall hunter had just helped Bo off the car. Then Helen looked up into a smooth bronzed face and piercing gray eyes.
"Are you Helen Rayner?" he asked.
"Yes."
"My name's Dale. I've come to meet you."
"Ah! My uncle sent you?" added Helen, in quick relief.
"No; I can't say Al sent me," began the man, "but I reckon—"
He was interrupted by Riggs, who, grasping Helen by the arm, pulled her back a step.
"Say, mister, did Auchincloss send you to meet my young friends here?" he demanded, arrogantly.
Dale's glance turned from Helen to Riggs. She could not read this quiet gray gaze, but it thrilled her.
"No. I come on my own hook," he answered.
"You'll understand, then—they're in my charge," added Riggs.
This time the steady light-gray eyes met Helen's, and if there was not a smile in them or behind them she was still further baffled.
"Helen, I reckon you said you didn't want this fellow's attention."
"I certainly said that," replied Helen, quickly. Just then Bo slipped close to her and gave her arm a little squeeze. Probably Bo's thought was like hers—here was a real Western man. That was her first impression, and following swiftly upon it was a sensation of eased nerves.
Riggs swaggered closer to Dale.
"Say, Buckskin, I hail from Texas—"
"You're wastin' our time an' we've need to hurry," interrupted Dale. His tone seemed friendly. "An' if you ever lived long in Texas you wouldn't pester a lady an' you sure wouldn't talk like you do."
"What!" shouted Riggs, hotly. He dropped his right hand significantly to his hip.
"Don't throw your gun. It might go off," said Dale.
Whatever Riggs's intention had been—and it was probably just what Dale evidently had read it—he now flushed an angry red and jerked at his gun.
Dale's hand flashed too swiftly for Helen's eye to follow it. But she heard the thud as it struck. The gun went flying to the platform and scattered a group of Indians and Mexicans.
"You'll hurt yourself some day," said Dale.
Helen had never heard a slow, cool voice like this hunter's. Without excitement or emotion or hurry, it yet seemed full and significant of things the words did not mean. Bo uttered a strange little exultant cry.
Riggs's arm had dropped limp. No doubt it was numb. He stared, and his predominating expression was surprise. As the shuffling crowd began to snicker and whisper, Riggs gave Dale a malignant glance, shifted it to Helen, and then lurched away in the direction of his gun.
Dale did not pay any more attention to him. Gathering up Helen's baggage, he said, "Come on," and shouldered a lane through the gaping crowd. The girls followed close at his heels.
"Nell! what 'd I tell you?" whispered Bo. "Oh, you're all atremble!"
Helen was aware of her unsteadiness; anger and fear and relief in quick succession had left her rather weak. Once through the motley crowd of loungers, she saw an old gray stage-coach and four lean horses. A grizzled, sunburned man sat on the driver's seat, whip and reins in hand. Beside him was a younger man with rifle across his knees. Another man, young, tall, lean, dark, stood holding the coach door open. He touched his sombrero to the girls. His eyes were sharp as he addressed Dale.
"Milt, wasn't you held up?"
"No. But some long-haired galoot was tryin' to hold up the girls. Wanted to throw his gun on me. I was sure scared," replied Dale, as he deposited the luggage.
Bo laughed. Her eyes, resting upon Dale, were warm and bright. The young man at the coach door took a second look at her, and then a smile changed the dark hardness of his face.
Dale helped the girls up the high step into the stage, and then, placing the lighter luggage, in with them, he threw the heavier pieces on top.
"Joe, climb up," he said.
"Wal, Milt," drawled the driver, "let's ooze along."
Dale hesitated, with his hand on the door. He glanced at the crowd, now edging close again, and then at Helen.
"I reckon I ought to tell you," he said, and indecision appeared to concern him.
"What?" exclaimed Helen.
"Bad news. But talkin' takes time. An' we mustn't lose any."
"There's need of hurry?" queried Helen, sitting up sharply.
"I reckon."
"Is this the stage to Snowdrop?
"No. That leaves in the mornin'. We rustled this old trap to get a start to-night."
"The sooner the better. But I—I don't understand," said Helen, bewildered.
"It'll not be safe for you to ride on the mornin' stage," returned Dale.
"Safe! Oh, what do you mean?" exclaimed Helen. Apprehensively she gazed at him and then back at Bo.
"Explainin' will take time. An' facts may change your mind. But if you can't trust me—"
"Trust you!" interposed Helen, blankly. "You mean to take us to Snowdrop?"
"I reckon we'd better go roundabout an' not hit Snowdrop," he replied, shortly.
"Then to Pine—to my uncle—Al Auchincloss?
"Yes, I'm goin' to try hard."
Helen caught her breath. She divined that some peril menaced her. She looked steadily, with all a woman's keenness, into this man's face. The moment was one of the fateful decisions she knew the West had in store for her. Her future and that of Bo's were now to be dependent upon her judgments. It was a hard moment and, though she shivered inwardly, she welcomed the initial and inevitable step. This man Dale, by his dress of buckskin, must be either scout or hunter. His size, his action, the tone of his voice had been reassuring. But Helen must decide from what she saw in his face whether or not to trust him. And that face was clear bronze, unlined, unshadowed, like a tranquil mask, clean-cut, strong-jawed, with eyes of wonderful transparent gray.
"Yes, I'll trust you," she said. "Get in, and let us hurry. Then you can explain."
"All ready, Bill. Send 'em along," called Dale.
He had to stoop to enter the stage, and, once in, he appeared to fill that side upon which he sat. Then the driver cracked his whip; the stage lurched and began to roll; the motley crowd was left behind. Helen awakened to the reality, as she saw Bo staring with big eyes at the hunter, that a stranger adventure than she had ever dreamed of had began with the rattling roll of that old stage-coach.
Dale laid off his sombrero and leaned forward, holding his rifle between his knees. The light shone better upon his features now that he was bareheaded. Helen had never seen a face like that, which at first glance appeared darkly bronzed and hard, and then became clear, cold, aloof, still, intense. She wished she might see a smile upon it. And now that the die was cast she could not tell why she had trusted it. There was singular force in it, but she did not recognize what kind of force. One instant she thought it was stern, and the next that it was sweet, and again that it was neither.
"I'm glad you've got your sister," he said, presently.
"How did you know she's my sister?"
"I reckon she looks like you."
"No one else ever thought so," replied Helen, trying to smile.
Bo had no difficulty in smiling, as she said, "Wish I was half as pretty as Nell."
"Nell. Isn't your name Helen?" queried Dale.
"Yes. But my—some few call me Nell."
"I like Nell better than Helen. An' what's yours?" went on Dale, looking at Bo.
"Mine's Bo. Just plain B-o. Isn't it silly? But I wasn't asked when they gave it to me," she replied.
"Bo. It's nice an' short. Never heard it before. But I haven't met many people for years."
"Oh! we've left the town!" cried Bo. "Look, Nell! How bare! It's just like desert."
"It is desert. We've forty miles of that before we come to a hill or a tree."
Helen glanced out. A flat, dull-green expanse waved away from the road on and on to a bright, dark horizon-line, where the sun was setting rayless in a clear sky. Open, desolate, and lonely, the scene gave her a cold thrill.
"Did your uncle Al ever write anythin' about a man named Beasley?" asked Dale.
"Indeed he did," replied Helen, with a start of surprise. "Beasley! That name is familiar to us—and detestable. My uncle complained of this man for years. Then he grew bitter—accused Beasley. But the last year or so not a word!"
"Well, now," began the hunter, earnestly, "let's get the bad news over. I'm sorry you must be worried. But you must learn to take the West as it is. There's good an' bad, maybe more bad. That's because the country's young.... So to come right out with it—this Beasley hired a gang of outlaws to meet the stage you was goin' in to Snowdrop—to-morrow—an' to make off with you."
"Make off with me?" ejaculated Helen, bewildered.
"Kidnap you! Which, in that gang, would be worse than killing you!" declared Dale, grimly, and he closed a huge fist on his knee.
Helen was utterly astounded.
"How hor-rible!" she gasped out. "Make off with me!... What in Heaven's name for?"
Bo gave vent to a fierce little utterance.
"For reasons you ought to guess," replied Dale, and he leaned forward again. Neither his voice nor face changed in the least, but yet there was a something about him that fascinated Helen. "I'm a hunter. I live in the woods. A few nights ago I happened to be caught out in a storm an' I took to an old log cabin. Soon as I got there I heard horses. I hid up in the loft. Some men rode up an' come in. It was dark. They couldn't see me. An' they talked. It turned out they were Snake Anson an' his gang of sheep-thieves. They expected to meet Beasley there. Pretty soon he came. He told Anson how old Al, your uncle, was on his last legs—how he had sent for you to have his property when he died. Beasley swore he had claims on Al. An' he made a deal with Anson to get you out of the way. He named the day you were to reach Magdalena. With Al dead an' you not there, Beasley could get the property. An' then he wouldn't care if you did come to claim it. It 'd be too late.... Well, they rode away that night. An' next day I rustled down to Pine. They're all my friends at Pine, except old Al. But they think I'm queer. I didn't want to confide in many people. Beasley is strong in Pine, an' for that matter I suspect Snake Anson has other friends there besides Beasley. So I went to see your uncle. He never had any use for me because he thought I was lazy like an Indian. Old Al hates lazy men. Then we fell out—or he fell out—because he believed a tame lion of mine had killed some of his sheep. An' now I reckon that Tom might have done it. I tried to lead up to this deal of Beasley's about you, but old Al wouldn't listen. He's cross—very cross. An' when I tried to tell him, why, he went right out of his head. Sent me off the ranch. Now I reckon you begin to see what a pickle I was in. Finally I went to four friends I could trust. They're Mormon boys—brothers. That's Joe out on top, with the driver. I told them all about Beasley's deal an' asked them to help me. So we planned to beat Anson an' his gang to Magdalena. It happens that Beasley is as strong in Magdalena as he is in Pine. An' we had to go careful. But the boys had a couple of friends here—Mormons, too, who agreed to help us. They had this old stage.... An' here you are." Dale spread out his big hands and looked gravely at Helen and then at Bo.
"You're perfectly splendid!" cried Bo, ringingly. She was white; her fingers were clenched; her eyes blazed.
Dale appeared startled out of his gravity, and surprised, then pleased. A smile made his face like a boy's. Helen felt her body all rigid, yet slightly trembling. Her hands were cold. The horror of this revelation held her speechless. But in her heart she echoed Bo's exclamation of admiration and gratitude.
"So far, then," resumed Dale, with a heavy breath of relief. "No wonder you're upset. I've a blunt way of talkin'.... Now we've thirty miles to ride on this Snowdrop road before we can turn off. To-day sometime the rest of the boys—Roy, John, an' Hal—were to leave Show Down, which's a town farther on from Snowdrop. They have my horses an' packs besides their own. Somewhere on the road we'll meet them—to-night, maybe—or tomorrow. I hope not to-night, because that 'd mean Anson's gang was ridin' in to Magdalena."
Helen wrung her hands helplessly.
"Oh, have I no courage?" she whispered.
"Nell, I'm as scared as you are," said Bo, consolingly, embracing her sister.
"I reckon that's natural," said Dale, as if excusing them. "But, scared or not, you both brace up. It's a bad job. But I've done my best. An' you'll be safer with me an' the Beeman boys than you'd be in Magdalena, or anywhere else, except your uncle's."
"Mr.—Mr. Dale," faltered Helen, with her tears falling, "don't think me a coward—or—or ungrateful. I'm neither. It's only I'm so—so shocked. After all we hoped and expected—this—this—is such a—a terrible surprise."
"Never mind, Nell dear. Let's take what comes," murmured Bo.
"That's the talk," said Dale. "You see, I've come right out with the worst. Maybe we'll get through easy. When we meet the boys we'll take to the horses an' the trails. Can you ride?"
"Bo has been used to horses all her life and I ride fairly well," responded Helen. The idea of riding quickened her spirit.
"Good! We may have some hard ridin' before I get you up to Pine. Hello! What's that?"
Above the creaking, rattling, rolling roar of the stage Helen heard a rapid beat of hoofs. A horse flashed by, galloping hard.
Dale opened the door and peered out. The stage rolled to a halt. He stepped down and gazed ahead.
"Joe, who was that?" he queried.
"Nary me. An' Bill didn't know him, either," replied Joe. "I seen him 'way back. He was ridin' some. An' he slowed up goin' past us. Now he's runnin' again."
Dale shook his head as if he did not like the circumstances.
"Milt, he'll never get by Roy on this road," said Joe.
"Maybe he'll get by before Roy strikes in on the road."
"It ain't likely."
Helen could not restrain her fears. "Mr. Dale, you think he was a messenger—going ahead to post that—that Anson gang?"
"He might be," replied Dale, simply.
Then the young man called Joe leaned out from the seat above and called: "Miss Helen, don't you worry. Thet fellar is more liable to stop lead than anythin' else."
His words, meant to be kind and reassuring, were almost as sinister to Helen as the menace to her own life. Long had she known how cheap life was held in the West, but she had only known it abstractly, and she had never let the fact remain before her consciousness. This cheerful young man spoke calmly of spilling blood in her behalf. The thought it roused was tragic—for bloodshed was insupportable to her—and then the thrills which followed were so new, strange, bold, and tingling that they were revolting. Helen grew conscious of unplumbed depths, of instincts at which she was amazed and ashamed.
"Joe, hand down that basket of grub—the small one with the canteen," said Dale, reaching out a long arm. Presently he placed a cloth-covered basket inside the stage. "Girls, eat all you want an' then some."
"We have a basket half full yet," replied Helen.
"You'll need it all before we get to Pine.... Now, I'll ride up on top with the boys an' eat my supper. It'll be dark, presently, an' we'll stop often to listen. But don't be scared."
With that he took his rifle and, closing the door, clambered up to the driver's seat. Then the stage lurched again and began to roll along.
Not the least thing to wonder at of this eventful evening was the way Bo reached for the basket of food. Helen simply stared at her.
"Bo, you CAN'T EAT!" she exclaimed.
"I should smile I can," replied that practical young lady. "And you're going to if I have to stuff things in your mouth. Where's your wits, Nell? He said we must eat. That means our strength is going to have some pretty severe trials.... Gee! it's all great—just like a story! The unexpected—why, he looks like a prince turned hunter!—long, dark, stage journey—held up—fight—escape—wild ride on horses—woods and camps and wild places—pursued—hidden in the forest—more hard rides—then safe at the ranch. And of course he falls madly in love with me—no, you, for I'll be true to my Las Vegas lover—"
"Hush, silly! Bo, tell me, aren't you SCARED?"
"Scared! I'm scared stiff. But if Western girls stand such things, we can. No Western girl is going to beat ME!"
That brought Helen to a realization of the brave place she had given herself in dreams, and she was at once ashamed of herself and wildly proud of this little sister.
"Bo, thank Heaven I brought you with me!" exclaimed Helen, fervently. "I'll eat if it chokes me."
Whereupon she found herself actually hungry, and while she ate she glanced out of the stage, first from one side and then from the other. These windows had no glass and they let the cool night air blow in. The sun had long since sunk. Out to the west, where a bold, black horizon-line swept away endlessly, the sky was clear gold, shading to yellow and blue above. Stars were out, pale and wan, but growing brighter. The earth appeared bare and heaving, like a calm sea. The wind bore a fragrance new to Helen, acridly sweet and clean, and it was so cold it made her fingers numb.
"I heard some animal yelp," said Bo, suddenly, and she listened with head poised.
But Helen heard nothing save the steady clip-clop of hoofs, the clink of chains, the creak and rattle of the old stage, and occasionally the low voices of the men above.
When the girls had satisfied hunger and thirst, night had settled down black. They pulled the cloaks up over them, and close together leaned back in a corner of the seat and talked in whispers. Helen did not have much to say, but Bo was talkative.
"This beats me!" she said once, after an interval. "Where are we, Nell? Those men up there are Mormons. Maybe they are abducting us!"
"Mr. Dale isn't a Mormon," replied Helen.
"How do you know?"
"I could tell by the way he spoke of his friends."
"Well, I wish it wasn't so dark. I'm not afraid of men in daylight.... Nell, did you ever see such a wonderful looking fellow? What'd they call him? Milt—Milt Dale. He said he lived in the woods. If I hadn't fallen in love with that cowboy who called me—well, I'd be a goner now."
After an interval of silence Bo whispered, startlingly, "Wonder if Harve Riggs is following us now?"
"Of course he is," replied Helen, hopelessly.
"He'd better look out. Why, Nell, he never saw—he never—what did Uncle Al used to call it?—sav—savvied—that's it. Riggs never savvied that hunter. But I did, you bet."
"Savvied! What do you mean, Bo?"
"I mean that long-haired galoot never saw his real danger. But I felt it. Something went light inside me. Dale never took him seriously at all."
"Riggs will turn up at Uncle Al's, sure as I'm born," said Helen.
"Let him turn," replied Bo, contemptuously. "Nell, don't you ever bother your head again about him. I'll bet they're all men out here. And I wouldn't be in Harve Riggs's boots for a lot."
After that Bo talked of her uncle and his fatal illness, and from that she drifted back to the loved ones at home, now seemingly at the other side of the world, and then she broke down and cried, after which she fell asleep on Helen's shoulder.
But Helen could not have fallen asleep if she had wanted to.
She had always, since she could remember, longed for a moving, active life; and for want of a better idea she had chosen to dream of gipsies. And now it struck her grimly that, if these first few hours of her advent in the West were forecasts of the future, she was destined to have her longings more than fulfilled.
Presently the stage rolled slower and slower, until it came to a halt. Then the horses heaved, the harnesses clinked, the men whispered. Otherwise there was an intense quiet. She looked out, expecting to find it pitch-dark. It was black, yet a transparent blackness. To her surprise she could see a long way. A shooting-star electrified her. The men were listening. She listened, too, but beyond the slight sounds about the stage she heard nothing. Presently the driver clucked to his horses, and travel was resumed.
For a while the stage rolled on rapidly, evidently downhill, swaying from side to side, and rattling as if about to fall to pieces. Then it slowed on a level, and again it halted for a few moments, and once more in motion it began a laborsome climb. Helen imagined miles had been covered. The desert appeared to heave into billows, growing rougher, and dark, round bushes dimly stood out. The road grew uneven and rocky, and when the stage began another descent its violent rocking jolted Bo out of her sleep and in fact almost out of Helen's arms.
"Where am I?" asked Bo, dazedly.
"Bo, you're having your heart's desire, but I can't tell you where you are," replied Helen.
Bo awakened thoroughly, which fact was now no wonder, considering the jostling of the old stage.
"Hold on to me, Nell!... Is it a runaway?"
"We've come about a thousand miles like this, I think," replied Helen. "I've not a whole bone in my body."
Bo peered out of the window.
"Oh, how dark and lonesome! But it'd be nice if it wasn't so cold. I'm freezing."
"I thought you loved cold air," taunted Helen.
"Say, Nell, you begin to talk like yourself," responded Bo.
It was difficult to hold on to the stage and each other and the cloak all at once, but they succeeded, except in the roughest places, when from time to time they were bounced around. Bo sustained a sharp rap on the head.
"Oooooo!" she moaned. "Nell Rayner, I'll never forgive you for fetching me on this awful trip."
"Just think of your handsome Las Vegas cowboy," replied Helen.
Either this remark subdued Bo or the suggestion sufficed to reconcile her to the hardships of the ride.
Meanwhile, as they talked and maintained silence and tried to sleep, the driver of the stage kept at his task after the manner of Western men who knew how to get the best out of horses and bad roads and distance.
By and by the stage halted again and remained at a standstill for so long, with the men whispering on top, that Helen and Bo were roused to apprehension.
Suddenly a sharp whistle came from the darkness ahead.
"Thet's Roy," said Joe Beeman, in a low voice.
"I reckon. An' meetin' us so quick looks bad," replied Dale. "Drive on, Bill."
"Mebbe it seems quick to you," muttered the driver, "but if we hain't come thirty mile, an' if thet ridge thar hain't your turnin'-off place, why, I don't know nothin'."
The stage rolled on a little farther, while Helen and Bo sat clasping each other tight, wondering with bated breath what was to be the next thing to happen.
Then once more they were at a standstill. Helen heard the thud of boots striking the ground, and the snorts of horses.
"Nell, I see horses," whispered Bo, excitedly. "There, to the side of the road... and here comes a man.... Oh, if he shouldn't be the one they're expecting!"
Helen peered out to see a tall, dark form, moving silently, and beyond it a vague outline of horses, and then pale gleams of what must have been pack-loads.
Dale loomed up, and met the stranger in the road.
"Howdy, Milt? You got the girl sure, or you wouldn't be here," said a low voice.
"Roy, I've got two girls—sisters," replied Dale.
The man Roy whistled softly under his breath. Then another lean, rangy form strode out of the darkness, and was met by Dale.
"Now, boys—how about Anson's gang?" queried Dale.
"At Snowdrop, drinkin' an' quarrelin'. Reckon they'll leave there about daybreak," replied Roy.
"How long have you been here?"
"Mebbe a couple of hours."
"Any horse go by?"
"No."
"Roy, a strange rider passed us before dark. He was hittin' the road. An' he's got by here before you came."
"I don't like thet news," replied Roy, tersely. "Let's rustle. With girls on hossback you'll need all the start you can get. Hey, John?"
"Snake Anson shore can foller hoss tracks," replied the third man.